


The Enemy Within

by PR Zed (przed)



Series: The Zedverse [5]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An international conspiracy closes in on Illya, Napoleon and their friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in _Relative Secrecy 5_

####  _Wednesday, April 6, 1966_

It was a beautiful evening in Hong Kong. The temperature had not yet become as sweltering as it would be even a month from now. The skies were clear of the clouds that would soon bring the monsoon rains, and the lights of the city reflected brightly in the waters of Hong Kong harbor.

The head of U.N.C.L.E. HK leaned against a railing at the Star Ferry dock and looked appreciatively at the city spread out before him. Richard Yuen may have been born on Lamma Island and educated in Britain, but Hong Kong was his city and he loved all of it, from its shining new office towers to its seamy back alleys.

But tonight he had insisted on going out unaccompanied. His Chief Enforcement Agent had nearly had a stroke. Yuen had gotten his own way when he pointed out that not only would this informant only meet with him, but that he would be a mere two blocks from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in Central and surrounded by the crowds of commuters taking the Star Ferry from the island across the harbor to Kowloon.

Feeling relaxed, Yuen watched the people flow around him, businessmen carrying briefcases and secretaries wearing brightly colored silk cheungsams. And none of them had the slightest inkling of the secret world that shared the same air with them.

Yuen checked his watch. Five minutes to go. His contact had never in their long acquaintance been late, nor failed to provide useful information. Nor had he agreed to meet with any other agent, even when Yuen had been promoted to the top job in HK. Not that Yuen had tried too hard to change his mind. It was nice to be out in the field, even if he was only a stone's throw from the office. It gave him the opportunity to pretend he was just another field agent, and not the one making life and death decisions that affected nearly a hundred people.

One minute before the assigned time, he saw a familiar face heading his way, but it was not the one he was expecting. The man approached him purposefully. Obviously their meeting was no accident.

"What's wrong?" Yuen asked when the man was within earshot. All of his subordinates knew enough to stay away from this rendezvous unless something very important arose.

"There's been an emergency communiqué from New York." The man stopped and looked at the crowds beginning to build up around them. "Shall we find someplace slightly less out in the open?"

Yuen nodded, and they moved to a corner of the dock, away from the crowds and beyond the earshot of anyone who might wish to overhear their conversation.

When it was clear they were alone, his companion began to fumble in his jacket pockets.

"I have something for you. Now where is it?"

Yuen flicked his eyes to the right, just for a moment, to confirm they weren't being observed. And that must have been how he missed it.

There was a sharp pain in his side. He looked down to see the hilt of a dagger protruding from his side, with the other man's hand upon it.

At first, he was too stunned to do anything but stare stupidly the dagger. He felt a firm hand on his arm, keeping him on his feet as his knees began to buckle beneath him.

The shock lifted and he tried to shout for help and found that he couldn't. He looked up in confusion.

"The blade is tipped in curare. I'm afraid you can't speak." The man looked at him with the curiosity of a predator examining its prey. "In fact, I'm afraid you don't have long at all."

Yuen focused on his anger and tried to move, to reach the communicator in his pocket. He might not be able to speak but he still might be able to trip the homing device. Unfortunately, the man anticipated his move. He retrieved the device, and placed it in his own pocket.

"We can't have our office staging any last minute rescues, now, can we?"

Yuen could feel the neural toxin spreading through his body, shutting his systems down one by one.

"Why?" he mouthed.

Even though he couldn't make a sound, the other man understood him. He smiled broadly before he answered. "Because you are in the way." He released his hold and Yuen felt himself slide to the floor.

"Could someone help me," his killer shouted. "My friend is ill."

Don't believe him, Yuen wanted to scream. He's betrayed me, murdered me. But the poison that was even now taking his life prevented him from making a sound. He could only watch helplessly as the man winked at him, then disappeared into the crowds that were gathering around them.

A woman screamed as she noticed the knife in his side, but it was too late.

Too late for everything.

* * *

####  _Saturday, April 9, 1966_

The Central Market in Riga was one of the liveliest places in the city. The four halls, which had held German zeppelins during the First World War, were now where the residents of Riga came to purchase just about everything. Here, farmers selling homemade sausages or even whole cows vied with grandmothers selling kittens. Pomegranates from the far corners of the Union could be found next to potatoes from outside Sigulda. In the market, you found yourself surrounded by a swirl of humanity, Latvian and Russian, young and old, and all too preoccupied by their own concerns to notice a lone KGB agent lurking in their midst.

Vassili Rodchenko preferred it that way.

He dug his hands into his pockets and tried his best to blend in with the shoppers as he waited for his contact. It was a simple meet, an exchange of information, but nothing about it was ordinary. Instead of one of the countless lower level couriers spread throughout the Baltic, Vassili was here to meet one very special agent.

Nataliya Antonenko was only forty-six, but she was highly placed and respected in the KGB. A veteran of the Great Patriotic War, she had managed to survive the killing grounds of Stalingrad and had risen steadily through the ranks of various Soviet intelligence organizations. She was tough, but with a strong ethical sense that even years of working in the shadowy world of espionage hadn't been able to blunt.

To Vassili, she was a trusted friend and mentor. It was she who had been his protector when he had helped Illya Kuryakin escape from Lubyanka last fall. And now she had asked for his help. Called him to this city to collect, well, something and take ... somewhere.

Nataliya couldn't have been more vague if she'd tried. He had no idea what the package was, what it contained, or to whom he was expected to deliver it. All he did know was that Comrade Antonenko considered it important. That was enough.

He shifted from one foot to another and sucked on his teeth as he looked around for the fiftieth time. He was hoping to spot Nataliya's confident form striding through the stalls, but all he could see were people engaged in the everyday task of buying food.

He glared at his watch. Ten minutes late. He felt more adrenaline pump into his system and tried to calm his anxiety. There must be an ordinary, non-sinister explanation for her delay. A missed train, a traffic jam. Except that Nataliya Antonenko had not been late for an appointment in the nearly twenty years Vassili had known her, had insisted that those working for her not be late either. Lives depended on it, she would assert. And yet she was late now.

Vassili pulled the brim of his hat firmly over his face and examined the crowd. Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes and he would leave, set up an alternate meet. He clenched the hands in his pockets into fists and schooled his features into an impassive mask.

Nine minutes later, she appeared. Nataliya Antonenko was a trim woman of medium height, gray just beginning to show in her hair. Vassili stilled his impulse to wave at her and let her come to him.

She approached with her usual economy of motion, no energy wasted. He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to greet her, all the while watching the surrounding crowd for signs of too much interest. And somehow, in spite of years of training and even more experience, he missed it.

One moment, Nataliya was walking purposefully in his direction, the next, someone had stumbled against her, leaving her standing stock still, holding her side, an expression of surprise spreading across her face. What he played it over in his mind later, Vassili thought he might have seen a flash of metal, but he would never be sure. And he would never be able to remember the face of the assassin.

Even after Nataliya had stopped, he still wasn't aware of a problem until she looked straight at him and fell, her knees buckling under her.

He acted without thinking, running to her side.

"Nataliya," he said, trying to staunch the flow of blood that ran from between her fingers. In the back of his mind, he noted the ripple of alarm that traveled through the crowd, but all his conscious attention was on the woman in his arms. "Stay quiet and I'll get help."

She tried to push him away with her free hand.

"No," she insisted through graying lips. "Too late for me."

"But..."

"Shut up." She clenched her jaw around her pain before continuing. "No time."

Swallowing his concern for a friend, he followed the order of his superior.

"Pick up package at drop on Elizabetes Iela. Take it to New York."

"New York?"

"Use Kuryakin. Deliver it to Waverly."

"To U.N.C.L.E.?" None of this was making any sense.

"Promise me. Only to Waverly."

"I promise." He tried to take hold of her hand. "Now let me get you to a hospital."

"No." She fended him off with a weakening hand, and convulsed in pain at the effort. "Not safe. Traitors everywhere."

"I won't leave you," he insisted.

Then she did something that he didn't expect. She grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him towards her with all of her remaining strength. She held his gaze with her green, pain-filled eyes and said one word.

"Run."

It was the one word he had never expected to hear from her lips. Nataliya Antonenko had never run from a fight in her life, not from the Nazis, not from the Western agents she occasionally sparred with, and certainly not from political enemies in her own country. But he could see knowledge in her eyes, not only of her own death but also of his, if he stayed in this place and tried to protect her.

So he ran. He swallowed the shame and ran and didn't stop until he knew he hadn't been followed, knew he was safe.

He would run until he reached New York, until he had delivered the cursed package and fulfilled his duty to the woman who lay bleeding her life away behind him. He would do what Nataliya had asked. Then he would return and find the people responsible for her death.

And he would kill them.

* * *

####  _Monday, April 11, 1966_

Anyone who knew Illya Kuryakin knew that he could be quite reserved. Some might call him more than that. Reticent, aloof, standoffish, remote, withdrawn and cold were all words that had been applied to the man numerous times. And most of those times Napoleon Solo had laughed at the descriptions and shared the joke with his partner.

He wasn't laughing now.

Illya seemed determined to break the world record for silence. From the time they had completed their assignment in Los Angeles he hadn't said a word. Except, of course for the pointed looks that he directed at Napoleon every so often. Those looks spoke volumes. And they weren't very flattering volumes, either.

Napoleon had at first tried to jolly Illya out of his mood. When that course had produced nothing except several non-verbal, but quite eloquent, death threats, Napoleon had decided that silence was the better part of valor and that Illya could emerge from his sulk in his own time. And ten hours later, he still hadn't.

As their taxi pulled up in front of their apartment building, Napoleon wasn't entirely sure if he should heave a sigh of relief or prepare for a battle.

He noticed the wince Illya gave as he exited the cab, and made certain that he was the one who got both of their bags from the trunk. He earned another black look for his trouble, but better that than have his own lack of consideration for his partner thrown back at him later.

They climbed the stairs to the apartment slowly, Napoleon weighed down by their luggage and Illya by his own internal baggage. Illya opened the door and immediately headed towards the bedroom at the back. Napoleon put down the bags and reset their alarms before following his partner.

He found Illya in the midst of throwing his jacket on the bed and gingerly easing his tie from around his neck.

Napoleon was chewing on his lip, trying to think of something to say, when Illya chose to break his self-imposed vow of silence.

"If anyone ever says the words Venice Beach' and stakeout' to me again in the same sentence, I shall wring his or her neck."

The much-anticipated storm had broken. Now, it only had to be ridden out. No longer worried about saving his partner's feelings, Napoleon decided to wade into the waves and let them do their worst.

"I think Mr. Waverly was trying to give us an easy assignment, for a change."

"Easy!" Illya exploded. "I question your definition of the word easy,' Napoleon." Illya unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off to reveal a torso that was almost precisely the same red as a nicely cooked lobster.

"Playing lifeguard on a California beach isn't exactly a hardship, Illya."

"Then why didn't you volunteer to play lifeguard?'" There was no mistaking the aggravation in Illya's voice.

Napoleon coughed before answering, weighing his response carefully before returning with the truth.

"You're a better swimmer than I am. Being ex-Navy, and all."

"Ex-Soviet Navy, Napoleon. Soviet, not Californian. My complexion is used to northern climates, not the wretched Californian sun. I'm burnt to a crisp."

Napoleon reached out and brushed a fleck of peeling skin from Illya's shoulder.

"I, uh, see your point."

He earned another glare for that comment.

Illya twisted uncomfortably.

"I swear I still have sand in places sand should never go." He sat on the bed and pulled off a sock and stared unhappily as a small trickle of sand did indeed fall from his foot.

Napoleon successfully kept a smile from his face, only too aware of his fate if Illya should think he was being mocked.

But somehow Illya knew. He always knew. And this time he turned on his partner.

"And what did you get to do all day? Stroll around  fully clothed, I might add  drinking the occasional cocktail and asking a few questions. While I had to fend off hordes of teenage girls."

"There's nothing wrong with teenage girls, Illya."

"They giggle," Illya said, in the sort of horrified voice generally reserved for descriptions of unspeakable terror. He pulled off his other sock before continuing. "And they kept pretending they were drowning so that I'd go and rescue them. It was horrible."

Napoleon would have sworn that Illya actually shuddered, if he hadn't known that such an action was beyond his partner.

"You're an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Illya. You can defend yourself against any Californian high school girl." Napoleon knew he was taking his life in his hands, but he couldn't resist. If Illya didn't want to be made fun of, he'd have to stop looking so adorable while kvetching.

"Mock me, Napoleon, but next time you get to be the lifeguard."

Illya stood and stepped out of his trousers, shaking more sand from them, before pulling on a white T-shirt and pair of old jeans. He made such a striking figure, in spite of, or maybe because of the sunburnt nose, that Napoleon found him more irresistible than usual. He tousled the blond hair and planted a kiss on the pouting lips.

"Play your cards right, _tovarisch_ , and I'll put Noxzema on your sunburn."

Illya tried his hardest to maintain his glower, but it was obvious that his mood was already turning. A half smile played across his lips as he answered.

"Play _your_ cards right, _cara_ _mio_ , and you'll get to do more than that." He turned and padded his way down the hall to the bathroom.

Loosening his own tie, Napoleon lay back on the bed and thought of all the things he could do with his newly tractable partner. Even with the sunburn, he was anticipating a very enjoyable evening.

The shower had stopped, and Napoleon had changed into a pair of khakis and a short sleeved shirt, when there was a knock at their door.

Napoleon froze. When you were an agent for the Command, unexpected knocks at the door were more likely to be an enemy agent with mayhem in mind than a neighbor wanting to borrow a cup of sugar.

He was already pulling his gun from his holster when Illya appeared in the hall, his clothes thrown on, his hair still damp from the shower and in disarray. Illya shot him a questioning look, which he could only answer with a shrug. Illya gave him an exasperated look, and moved to the bedroom to retrieve his own weapon.

Napoleon positioned himself to one side of the door and chambered a round in his gun. Illya joined him and stood to the other side of the door and nodded. They were ready.

Whoever was on the other side of the door choose that moment to knock again, a little more urgently this time. Definitely not a neighbor looking for sugar.

"Who is it?" Napoleon asked, tightening his grip on his gun.

"Napoleon?" Their visitor's voice was male and had a definite accent. "Napoleon, I need to see Illya."

Napoleon looked to his partner, whose face bore a look of surprise. In response to his unasked question, Illya mouthed a single name. Vassili.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows as he nodded his understanding. Vassili Rodchenko was a friend of Illya's from his days in the KGB. He'd met the Russian when Vassili had helped them escape from Lubyanka last fall. But what was he doing in New York?

They both braced themselves, and at Illya's nod, Napoleon threw open the door. Two guns pointed directly in the face of Vassili Rodchenko.

For a man who was looking directly into two gun barrels, Rodchenko looked remarkably composed, though Napoleon could see signs of strain in the man. His eyes were underlined by the deep bruising of too little sleep and there were lines on his face that Napoleon did not remember from a year ago. This was clearly not a social visit.

"Napo" Vassili began, before Illya cut him off with a glance. In silence, Napoleon checked the apartment corridor for any other visitors, friendly or not, while Illya patted down his friend. Napoleon found nothing; Illya found only a Stechkin in a shoulder holster. Illya slipped the gun into the back of his waistband and they both hustled Vassili into their apartment. While Illya established Vassili on the couch, Napoleon took extra care in resetting their locks.

Illya didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Vassili, what are you doing here?"

"I have a favor to ask."

"And that is?" No matter how old the friend, Illya was still enough of a pragmatist never to promise something he couldn't deliver.

"I need to meet with your Mr. Waverly."

Napoleon gave a low whistle as Illya shot a significant look his way. You had to hand to it Vassili: he didn't skimp on the favors he asked for. But then again, they did owe him both their lives.

"Why?"

"I can only tell Mr. Waverly that."

Napoleon finally spoke.

"You have to know that we can't allow that. We at least have to know the topic of the meeting."

"I can tell you that it involves the security of both our organizations. And that it might explain some of what has gone on in my country the last two years."

"We need more than that before we can take you to Mr. Waverly," Napoleon said.

Vassili sat silently, his hands clasped in his lap, his lips pressed into a tight line. Illya gave him a full minute, then he sat beside his friend and put a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"We have to protect Waverly, Vasha. Even our friendship must come second to that."

Vassili looked closely at his friend, then let out a deep breath, his decision made.

"I cannot tell you everything, _moy droog_. The secret is not mine alone. But I can tell you that it concerns several suspicious deaths in the KGB." He looked over to Napoleon, as if willing him to believe the story. "We now have some evidence that the deaths were assassinations. And that the assassinations are the work of an organization that has been a thorn in the side of both our countries."

"Thrush," Napoleon said.

Vassili nodded.

"Quite possibly."

" _Bozhe moy_ ," Illya whispered.

"Will you help me?"

Napoleon traded a wordless communication with his partner. He knew what the outcome would be before they were done.

"Yes," Illya said.

"Yes," Napoleon repeated.

" _Spasiba_ ," Vassili said. He closed his eyes and the tension suddenly bled out of his spine. Instead of looking relaxed, though, he merely seemed tired and old.

Looking at Vassili, Napoleon wished that he could somehow still believe in the God of his boyhood. He had the distinct impression that things were about to take a definite turn for the worse, and it would have been comforting to believe in a caring deity. Instead, he was left with his certainty of an uncaring universe with no possibility of divine intervention.

He felt Illya's hand on his shoulder and immediately felt his mood lighten ever so slightly. If he could no longer believe in God, at least he could believe in his partner.

He took a deep breath and began to think about what they were going to tell Waverly.

* * *

He had faced capture, torture and threat of death with equal aplomb. The only thing that could normally disturb him was a threat to his partner, and even then he could generally suppress his emotion until the job was done.

But this time, Illya Kuryakin was truly disturbed. Having an old friend appear on a mysterious mission that somehow concerned the head of U.N.C.L.E. in North America was not an everyday occurrence by any means, even for an Enforcement agent.

Napoleon appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, so Illya decided to see to their guest. All agents, no matter their nation, were trained to deal with their physical needs when they could, a lesson Illya had always taken to heart. He now applied it to his friend.

"Vassili, have you eaten recently?"

As expected, Vassili shook his head, though he seemed reluctant to admit to such a weakness.

"Come into the kitchen. We've just returned from a mission ourselves, but there must be something in the cupboards."

The fridge only contained half a carton of sour milk, which Illya promptly disposed of, and two shriveled carrots. There were, however, several cans of soup in the pantry. (Said cans were there in spite of Napoleon's objections. Ever a gastronomic purist, he considered soup in a can to be an abomination, however convenient it was.) Illya prepared some chicken noodle soup and then installed his friend in the breakfast nook. After starting the kettle boiling for tea and ensuring that Vassili's immediate needs were satisfied, he rejoined Napoleon in the living room.

He found Napoleon sitting on the couch, head in his hands, a cross look on his face.

"So, my friend, have you had any great revelations?"

Napoleon started, as if he had forgotten there were any other living creatures in the apartment, but recovered quickly. He drew a hand across his face before shaking his head.

"No, I'm afraid not. We're just going to have to call Waverly and wing it."

"That will make a nice change," Illya replied acidly.

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, _cara mio_."

Illya merely shot Napoleon a look that conveyed affection and exasperation in equal measure. Napoleon chose to ignore the look and pulled his communicator out of his breast pocket.

"Open Channel D. Mr. Waverly."

There was a brief pause, then they heard the unmistakable tones of Alexander Waverly.

"Mr. Solo, I thought you and Mr. Kuryakin were off duty."

"Ah, so did we, sir. But we've had an unexpected visitor who insists that he has a message that can only be delivered to you."

"Who is this person?" Illya wasn't sure if he was imagining it, but Waverly didn't seem altogether surprised.

"Vassili Rodchenko. You remember, he assisted Illya and me in Moscow last year."

"Of course I remember Mr. Rodchenko." Waverly said, indignantly. "Do you have any idea what his message concerns."

"He cannot give us the details, but he did tell us it's about a possible Thrush plot in the KGB."

"I see, Mr. Solo." There was a brief pause as Waverly considered the information he'd been given. The pause seemed to stretch longer and longer. Illya, not used to such delay from his superior, began to grow even more uneasy with each passing second.

Finally, Waverly had an answer.

"I will meet with Mr. Rodchenko. Can you have him here in one hour?"

"We can sir."

"Fine, Mr. Solo. And one more thing. I don't want any other U.N.C.L.E. personnel to know about Mr. Rodchenko's visit, so I'd like you to do something rather unorthodox."

And then Alexander Waverly did something that Illya Kuryakin had never expected to hear: he gave away the location of the legendary fifth entrance to U.N.C.L.E., the one only Waverly and a select few were meant to know about.

The unease that had been growing in Illya's heart became a fully-fledged bout of dread.

Whatever was going on, it was very bad indeed.

* * *

Alexander Waverly kept a firm hold on his pipe and shut out his surroundings and his companions. He ignored his CEA, frowning as he listened to the tape. He ignored Mr. Kuryakin as he neatly and efficiently translated and transcribed the tape's contents. He even ignored the young KGB agent  Kuryakin's friend, Rodchenko  as he sat at the conference table, anxious and concerned.

Instead, he concentrated on listening to the tape that had been delivered to him at such cost. His Russian wasn't good enough for him to understand everything, but he did pick up key words. Assassin. Traitor. Betrayal. But more than the words, he listened to the voice.

Nataliya Antonenko had not exactly been a friend, but she had been a woman he respected and admired. She had always followed her principles and had even been of assistance to him on occasion. He was certain that it was she who had chosen to send Illya Kuryakin as the Soviet's contribution to U.N.C.L.E. For that alone, he had reason to thank her.

Her voice on the tape was confident and strong and brought her face up in his memory. He remembered her as she had been during the war: impossibly young and utterly assured of her own ability to succeed. And now that confidence, that vitality, had been extinguished.

The voice finally stopped. Rodchenko turned off the tape recorder with a click as Kuryakin scribbled down one last sentence.

Waverly went to speak and found that his jaw was clenched in place. He eased his muscles and placed his pipe carefully on the conference table in front of him before trying again.

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin. What did Major General Antonenko have to say?"

Kuryakin looked up at him, his face more shadowed with worry now than it had been twenty minutes ago, before they had listened to the tape.

"I'm sure you understood some of it, sir." He shuffled through the papers in front of him. "Major General Antonenko had found increasing evidence of Thrush infiltration in the KGB. Suspicious deaths, unlikely promotions, possible assassina-tions. She was beginning to build up her case, but had to be wary of the political climate. The suspected Thrush were in high enough positions to make things difficult for her.

"Then, this week she received warning that she was to be the target of the next assassination."

"And she was correct, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Apparently." He had to hand it to Kuryakin: he didn't betray his feelings. "And that wasn't all."

"What else?"

"She had heard that Thrush was also infiltrating U.N.C.L.E. in much the same way. She has provided us with a list of suspected Thrush agents in both the Command and the KGB on a microdot accompanying the tape."

Waverly replaced the pipe in his mouth with a snap and spent a minute lighting it, as he worked to control his own emotions.

In truth, he wasn't certain what he felt. Certainly not surprise. For some time he had suspected exactly the same thing as Nataliya Antonenko. Perhaps the sensation that gripped at his guts was dread that his suspicions were being proved correct.

He looked at the young men in this room and considered how far he could trust them and where he could best use them.

He had very specific plans for Solo and Kuryakin. Their loyalty was unquestioned and it was unlikely they had yet been exposed to the conspiracy. They would be fresh faces, for the moment.

Rodchenko, though, was more of a problem. His loyalty, though less a known quantity, seemed to be on the right side. Antonenko had had enough confidence in him to entrust him with her message. And he had risked his career and his life to get Kuryakin out of Lubyanka last year. He was inclined to include Rodchenko in his plans. But not right away.

And first, he had to ensure that their conversation would go no further than this room.

"Gentlemen, before I say anything, I must swear you all to secrecy. You must not share what you are about to hear with anyone who is not in this room. Is that understood?"

Kuryakin and Solo nodded immediately, their obedience, in these circumstances anyway, automatic and complete. Rodchenko's agreement was anything but automatic.

The KGB agent looked searchingly at Waverly, pain mixing with determination in his eyes.

"Are we going to find the ones who killed her?"

"Yes."

Rodchenko closed his eyes and bowed his head. His chest heaved as he took several deep breaths, and then he looked back up at Waverly.

"Then, I too agree."

Waverly wasted no time on a preamble.

"Thrush is trying to infiltrate all the major intelligence organizations. Not only the KGB and U.N.C.L.E., but also the CIA and MI6. In fact, the espionage agencies of all NATO and Warsaw Pact countries are in danger of compromise. I've been attempting to accumulate evidence about this infiltration for some time, but have only heard whispers, rumors.

"But in the last month, the infiltrators seem to have become somewhat emboldened. There have been no fewer than five assassinations or attempted assassinations of senior intelligence officers in the last month, including the head of the Command's Hong Kong headquarters. Major General Antonenko makes six.

"The time has come to take the fight to Thrush, gentlemen. I intend to send small teams of trusted individuals to the focal points of Thrush activity so that we can shut this conspiracy down before it proceeds any further."

Waverly paused and closely examined his audience. Rodchenko looked grimly determined, which was only to be expected. He had, after all, had nearly a week to digest this information. Kuryakin was doing his usual best to hide his reaction, but Waverly thought he could detect unease beneath his controlled exterior. And Solo was looking almost openly discomfited. The signs were subtle, but clear to Waverly. They were all taking him seriously. He was glad about that. Failure to consider the risks would get them all killed, and the consequences were too high for him to allow that to happen.

"Mr. Solo, I am sending you and Mr. Kuryakin to Hong Kong. While there, you will investigate the death of Richard Yuen, the head of Section One in the colony. It seems likely that at least some of the senior conspirators can be found in Hong Kong.

"Mr. Rodchenko, for the moment you will remain in the United States, under the protection of U.N.C.L.E."

Rodchenko cleared his throat.

"You have a question, Mr. Rodchenko?"

"I want to act. It is not in my nature to sit by and do nothing."

"You will not be doing nothing, I assure you. And if you act at the wrong time, the only thing you will accomplish is getting yourself killed," Waverly said, far more sharply than he intended. "Think about it, man. Your own superior wasn't safe in Latvia. Since you were present at her assassination, it is quite likely you will be targeted next, even if you can't identify her killer." Waverly shook his head. "If you're to be of any use, we must use you carefully. And for now, it suits my purposes to hold you in reserve."

Rodchenko looked on the verge of making another outburst, which Waverly decided to quell before it could happen.

"Mr. Rodchenko, I assure you that you will have the opportunity to risk your life soon enough. I merely request your patience for a short time."

At that, Rodchenko acquiesced.

"If that's settled, we have one other issue to deal with. We need a team to work in Europe. Mr. Solo, as CEA, what team do you trust above all others?"

Solo didn't hesitate for a second before answering.

"Dancer and Slate."

Kuryakin nodded in agreement.

"Good. I'll recall them to New York immediately. The two of you can retrieve them from the airport and brief them. Now we just need a European liaison. Mr. Kuryakin, you worked in our Berlin office. Was there anyone there that you considered beyond reproach?"

Kuryakin took much longer to answer.

"I have not kept in touch with many people from Berlin, but I believe that Ingrid Möller was incorruptible. And I heard that she has just transferred from Section Eight to Section Two."

"Indeed she has, Mr. Kuryakin. She shows much promise. I will contact her and let her know when to expect Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer.

"In the meantime, I want you to take Mr. Rodchenko to a safe location." He scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Solo. "This safe house should serve."

Solo read the address and a frown appeared on his face.

"You have a question, Mr. Solo?"

"Well, ah, I don't recognize this address. It's not..."

"Not one of our standard safe houses," Waverly cut off his CEA. "I know, Mr. Solo. It's a location that only I know about. Any other questions?"

"No sir."

"Good. You will also need to get Mr. Rodchenko a new identity and U.N.C.L.E. identification. And I daresay he will need clothes and the like. I don't suppose you were able to bring much with you when you fled?"

"No, sir," Rodchenko answered. "Thank you very much."

"You shouldn't be thanking the man who is quite possibly throwing you back to the wolves." Waverly said harshly. "Now, if you would wait outside, I have one last thing to discuss with Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin."

Rodchenko nodded and let himself out into the room's antechamber. Waverly waited until the door shut behind him, then focused his attention on his two best agents.

"Gentlemen, there is one last bit of news I'm afraid I must share with you. Dr. Egret escaped from custody three weeks ago."

Illya frowned, and rightly so. His last meeting with the doctor had nearly resulted in his death.

Napoleon was louder in his displeasure.

"Why weren't we informed before this?"

"I've only just found out myself, gentlemen. It seems her jailers weren't informed of U.N.C.L.E.'s interest in the case."

"Damn," Napoleon said, before meeting his superior's gaze. "You think she's involved in this conspiracy, don't you?"

"I think it highly likely. And I don't need to tell you both to be careful. She has exhibited a distinct antipathy for you both."

"We will, sir." Waverly wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he thought that his CEA had moved just a bit closer to Kuryakin.

"Now, get out of here, both of you. I'll contact you when I know the flight information for Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate."

Both Kuryakin and Solo bowed without a word and left immediately.

Waverly lit his pipe once more and considered his next move.

* * *

The unique part of an agent's job, April Dancer mused, was that you could be bored silly one minute and fighting for your life the next.

At that moment the whine of a bullet tore over her head. Muttering under her breath, she ducked down further and checked the magazine of her gun. Only four rounds left.

"Drat."

An unfriendly head poked up from the smoked salmon display and she shot in its direction.

Three rounds left.

She looked across the aisle of the Fortnum & Mason's food hall to where her partner was likewise pinned down.

"Mark," she whispered as loudly as she could, trying not to warn their adversaries that their quarry was in worse shape than was obvious.

He glanced back at her and mouthed a single word.

"What?"

In answer, she held up her rapidly emptying magazine.

Mark muttered a word that was definitely not drat,'  she would really have to mention her son's appalling language to Mrs. Slate the next time they met  and reached into his jacket. A magazine appeared in his hand and he tossed it to her. She caught it smoothly and snapped it in place.

"You cannot possibly get away," said a voice with an indeterminately European accent. "We have you surrounded."

She really wished that Thrush would start giving their minions new scripts. The old ones were getting tiresome.

She cast her eyes around, looking desperately for something they could use to get out of here. Somehow she didn't think the Thrush soldiers would be afraid of flying tins of Oolong tea and caviar.

Then she noticed that the next aisle over was Wines and Spirits and an idea began to bloom.

She signaled her intention to Mark, tucked her gun into the back of her skirt and began to move. Mark laid sparse covering fire with his decreasing supply of ammunition as she crawled closer to her goal. Grabbing her prize, she maneuvered back to her previous position.

Mark's eyebrows rose when he saw what she held in her hands, but he nodded his understanding at her plan. As April listened closely to determine their foes' positions, Mark loaded a full clip into his gun. She spared a final look at her partner and then acted.

One, two, three bottles of Dom Perignon champagne were lobbed over the heads of the Thrush agents. And one, two, three bottles exploded as Mark's bullets found their targets.

There were screams as exploding shards of glass rained down on the Thrush. April and Mark both rushed their enemies, disarming and disabling them all and rounding them up in a group. The five men looked pathetic, soaked in expensive champagne and bleeding from a multitude of cuts. Personally, April thought it was too good for them.

"Nicely done, my dear, though it does seem a waste of good Dom."

"Fortnum's doesn't carry cheap plonk, Mark."

"You have a point."

Mark held their friends at gunpoint while she called London HQ to hurry up the cleanup crew. Said crew arrived mercifully quickly and took custody of the Thrush. A senior London agent stayed behind to smooth things over with both the Met and Fortnum's. April and Mark hustled out of the store before they had to explain why the store was now short three bottles of Dom Perignon and walked back to their car.

And as quickly as that, they were back at the boring bit of the job.

April knew what lay ahead of them. Endless filling out of forms, discussions with London's Section One staff about the discharge of firearms within the city limits. And then the interrogation of the prisoners, lower level Thrush operatives who probably didn't know enough to be worth all the trouble they'd caused.

She sighed deeply and took her place in the passenger seat of the Triumph convertible she and Mark had been assigned by the London carpool. Mark must have blackmail material on the London motor pool, since they always got a better than average car when on assignment here. Either that or he was more than usually friendly that nice young girl in the requisitions office.

Mark gave her a long-suffering look and pulled out into traffic, heading towards Piccadilly Circus.

"Back to Headquarters, then?" he asked.

"I don't suppose you could be convinced to play hooky."

"If you mean skiving off, no I couldn't. We're meant to be responsible little U.N.C.L.E. agents, April."

"I don't want to be responsible, and I really don't want to fill out any forms." She sighed again. "I bet they have special forms for Americans who shoot up Fortnum's."

Mark tried, and failed, to hide his smile.

"You're probably right. We can't let you Yanks get away with destroying British institutions now, can we."

"Ha ha," she said. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and wished they were back in New York facing something relaxing. Like Mr. Waverly's wrath.

She was so wrapped up in her own misery that she almost didn't hear the beep of her communicator. Fortunately, she wasn't quite that far gone and answered the call, hoping it wasn't the head of London HQ calling for her head on a platter.

"Dancer."

"Miss Dancer, is your partner with you?"

She knew that voice. It was Mr. Waverly.

"Yes, sir. He's right here."

"Are you alone?"

The conversation was becoming increasingly odd, but she was never one to question her superior.

"Yes. We're just on our way back to the London HQ."

"No you're not, Miss Dancer. You're to go straight to Heathrow and board TWA Flight 1602 to New York. The flight leaves in an hour and tickets will be waiting for you at the check-in counter."

April gave her partner a confused look. He merely shrugged.

"But sir..." Waverly cut her off before she could say another word.

"You will not stop to retrieve your belongings and you will not tell anyone else, especially other U.N.C.L.E. personnel, of your destination. You will leave the car in the Heathrow parking lot. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir." In fact, she didn't understand any of it and was dying to ask a thousand questions. However, she recognized the tone of Waverly's voice and knew that there was no chance he would answer her questions and every chance that he'd yell at her.

"Good. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin will meet you in New York. Do not make contact with anyone else. Waverly out."

April was left staring stupidly at her communicator, wondering what had happened. She finally managed to replace the cap on the device and stow it away.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I haven't the slightest, love." Mark gave her a quick glance before returning his attention to the road. "Have you been doing anything to annoy the Guv?"

"Nothing that bad." She paused before speaking again. "Have you ever known anyone to be pulled off a mission before it was completed?"

"Never," Mark said, shaking his head.

"Me either. In fact, Illya and Napoleon are full of stories about being forced to complete missions when they were completely out of their depth."

"Illya and Napoleon are never out of their depth," Mark said in a teasing tone.

"Well, I'm out of my depth, right this moment." She leaned her head back again, hoping against hope that everything would begin to make sense soon.

"At least Illya and Napoleon will be picking us up. Maybe they can explain what's going on," Mark said, his voice full of tentative optimism.

"I certainly hope so, Mark. I certainly hope so."

* * *

It had been a pleasant, if unremarkable spring day in Berlin.

The temperature had been warm and the clouds that had been threatening rain all day had failed to deliver on their promise.

Ingrid Möller had spent the day in U.N.C.L.E.'s Berlin headquarters, finishing up the paperwork from her last assignment. She had welcomed the break, but her partner, François Auteuil, had complained bitterly about being cooped up. She didn't take his complaints too seriously, especially since he was the one who had been injured their last time out and was now stuck with his arm in a sling. The dislocated shoulder had been painful, but would heal fully in a few weeks. In the meantime, she was happy enough to endure desk duty and François' grumbling.

François had tried to tempt her into dining out this evening  he was always trying to convince her of the pleasures of the French table and had found a restaurant that even she approved of  but she had decided to stay in and nurse her own bruises with a warm bath and an early night.

All told, her life was following the same patterns as she had come to expect working for the Command's Berlin office. There was chaos and disorder, but even the disorder had a certain predictability.

This evening, all that was about to change.

She would wonder later if there were any omens that she had missed, signs that her life was about to spin so horribly awry. But if the gods had given her any such warnings, she had missed them completely.

So, she was strolling easily through the streets on her way to her flat, blissfully unaware of the forces gathering around her, when a man she had never seem before approached her, carrying a manila envelope.

Which wouldn't, by itself, have been that unusual. Berlin was a city full of spies, and on any day, someone was selling information to someone else. What was unusual was that at precisely that moment, her communicator gave its telltale beep.

She froze, unwilling to answer her communicator in front of non-U.N.C.L.E. personnel.

"I think you should get that," the man said, in serviceable, if imperfect German.

Raising her eyebrows, she did just that.

"Möller."

"Ah, Miss Möller," a man's voice said. It took a few seconds, but Ingrid at last realized that she was talking to Alexander Waverly, the legendary head of U.N.C.L.E. North America.

"Mr. Waverly?"

Waverly ignored the question implicit in her voice and got straight to the point.

"Do you see the man standing in front of you?" Waverly's German was quite impeccable.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I want you to take the envelope from him. I'll hold while you do so."

Feeling dazed, Ingrid took the envelope from the man's hand. He gave her a jaunty salute, then disappeared without another word into the early evening crowds.

"Do you have the package?" the voice on her communicator asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You will proceed to a secure location and read the contents of the package. When you are done, and you have it all memorized, you will destroy everything. You will not return to the office to do this, and you will not tell anyone else about the contents of the envelope or how you obtained it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir, but..."

Waverly cut her off.

"You will be working directly under me, until further notice. You will take orders from no one else. All other instructions are contained in the envelope. Your superior and partner will be notified of your special situation. I will be in touch."

The connection was broken abruptly, and Ingrid was left feeling as if she had just tumbled down a rabbit hole. She stood there stupidly for a moment, holding the envelope and her communicator loosely in her hands.

 _This won't do_ , she thought crossly. Rousing herself, she set out briskly for her flat. It was as secure a place as one could find in this city and she suddenly had a need to be in a comfortable and familiar place.

She chewed on her lip as she walked and kept a wary eye on the other pedestrians surrounding her. Suddenly, everyone, from the kindly old gentleman who had just passed her to the schoolgirls skipping ahead of her, book bags carelessly hanging from their hands, had become a possible enemy agent.

She sighed in relief as she reached her flat, securing her locks behind her. Sitting at her kitchen table, having pulled down all the blinds, she ripped open the envelope and read the contents.

If possible, she felt worse once she knew what was inside.

She was to work with agents flying in from New York, Mark Slate and April Dancer, to determine if two individuals in Berlin had ties to Thrush. One person was a KGB operative, the other was in U.N.C.L.E. itself. There were few other details, but Möller could read between the lines. Thrush was planning something big, and Waverly didn't even trust others within the Command with the information. She wondered why she had been trusted and wasn't sure whether to be thankful or annoyed that she had been singled out.

Sitting with the envelope's contents laid out in front of her, Ingrid wished that she could call François and tell him about this. Could share her anxieties with him and have him dispel them in his uniquely Gallic way. But that comfort was denied her. Waverly had specifically forbidden her to talk with anyone about this matter. She would have no one to talk to until she picked up Slate and Dancer at the airport tomorrow morning.

Until then, there was nothing further she could do. She made certain she had memorized the documents, then burned them in her sink and washed the ashes down the drain. That done, she set out to follow her original plan for the evening: a simple meal, a relaxing bath and an early night.

She tried to tell herself that, for the moment, there was nothing she could do, that the best thing she could do would be to get a good night's rest.

Still, sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

####  _Tuesday, April 12, 1966_

Eleven hours after receiving Mr. Waverly's mysterious call, April and Mark found themselves at Terminal Five of JFK, straining to spot Illya and Napoleon in the crush of well-wishers meeting friends and family in the arrivals hall. In the end, Illya and Napoleon found them.

April was so happy to see her friends that she bestowed a quick hug on both of them. Just blending in with the crowd, she told herself. Mark limited himself to handshakes with both men, though it was clear that he was also pleased to see them.

As the four of them began walking through the terminal towards the parking lot, April could no longer contain her curiosity. She took Illya's elbow and drew him slightly away from the others.

"Illya, what on earth is going on?"

In response, Illya merely gave her a glaring look and reclaimed his elbow. Before she could be offended, Napoleon touched her shoulder.

"Not here," he whispered in her ear.

Chastened, and more curious than ever, she nodded and kept pace with the others.

She remained silent as they found the car and drove away from the airport. She sat in the front with Illya; Mark and Napoleon sat in the back.

When they were well on the highway, she peered over the back seat.

"Can you tell us what this is all about now?"

"No," Napoleon said.

"No?" she repeated, looking at Illya.

"No," Illya confirmed.

She sighed in frustration. "I know this is a secret organization, but it would be nice to have some idea of what we're meant to be doing."

She could have sworn that Illya gave a slight smile, but he stayed silent. Napoleon leaned forward and gave her shoulder a quick rub.

"You'll find out soon enough. And then you may wish you didn't know a thing."

"Great. More mystery. Just what I needed."

She flopped back against the seat and tried to enjoy the drive back into Manhattan.

She was surprised when their final destination was not Manhattan itself, but a quiet neighborhood in Brooklyn Heights. Illya parked the car in front of an unremarkable brownstone.

Looking grim and checking their surroundings in a way that could only mean they were suspicious of being followed, Illya and Napoleon led them inside the building. Napoleon led them into the sparsely furnished living room while Illya ran the most complete check for electronic surveillance April had ever seen.

A thin trickle of fear began to work its way down April's spine as she realized just how serious this situation must be.

"Everything okay?" Napoleon asked as Illya began packing up his equipment.

"So it would appear." Illya was obviously in full skeptic mode, but even he seemed satisfied that they were not being observed.

"Then I think it's time you got our guest."

Illya nodded and disappeared into the depths of the house.

April shot Napoleon a wordless question. He shook his head in response.

"Be patient, April. All will be explained."

A mere thirty seconds later, Illya appeared with another man. Napoleon performed the introductions.

"Vassili Rodchenko, I'd like you to meet April Dancer and Mark Slate."

Rodchenko nodded at them both, but said nothing. He sat down on a threadbare wing chair in one corner of the room, well away from the room's only window, April noted. She observed him carefully. His name was clearly Russian and his features had a definite Slavic cast to them. He was dressed in khaki pants and a button-down shirt that she suspected had been pulled from Napoleon's own closet  the two were of a size  and his face was marked by a deep fatigue. She suspected he would look quite dashing under normal circumstances, but at the moment he looked merely haggard.

She and Mark took the places Illya indicated on the couch while Napoleon took the remaining chair. Illya remained standing, and managed to give off the air of a singularly tough shepherd looking after his flock.

"So?" April asked.

Napoleon again took the lead.

"Vassili arrived in New York yesterday. He brought with him a tape from his superior in the KGB. The tape contains details of a Thrush conspiracy too infiltrate both the KGB and U.N.C.L.E. Mr. Waverly has some corroborating evidence, and also believes that the conspiracy may extend further, to all the major intelligence agencies.

"Bloody hell," Mark whispered.

"Indeed, Mr. Slate," Rodchenko said, in slightly accented English. His voice was a pleasant, if ragged, tenor.

"What's our assignment?" April decided to get down to the reason they had been recalled.

"Mr. Waverly would like you and Mark to travel to Berlin and investigate the situation there. Major General Antonenko, Vassili's superior, supplied the names of several suspected double agents in Berlin, both in our office and the Soviet's embassy. This dossier contains all the information we have on the conspiracy and the information on the suspects in Berlin." Napoleon passed her a plain manila envelope.

"You'll be working with Ingrid Möller, an agent from our Berlin office."

"Can we trust her?" April asked. If things were as grim as they appeared to be, there would seem to be very few people they could trust.

"I recommended her myself," Illya said. "I believe she is above reproach. However, even she is not to be considered completely above suspicion."

"Trust each other." Napoleon took over. "And trust Miss Möller as much as you have to. But keep your eyes open at all time. The people in this room and Mr. Waverly are the only ones we can really be sure of."

April took in a deep breath. This was fully as bad as she had feared it would be.

"So, we look for the bad apples in Berlin. And then what?"

"Keep an eye out for any clues as to who is controlling the conspiracy, and from where. If we can find the nexus of the plot, we may be able to pull the whole thing out by the roots."

"Where will you two be?" Mark asked.

"Waverly's sending us to Hong Kong. You heard that the head of Section One there was assassinated just a few days ago?"

April and Mark both nodded.

"Hong Kong seems to be the starting point of the conspiracy in the East."

Illya took over for his partner.

"We will all be operating alone for the duration of this assignment. Communication with Waverly is to be kept to a minimum. You will only contact us if absolutely necessary. And it goes without saying that all communication will be scrambled."

April nodded.

"Of course." She paused as she considered everything that had been thrown at her. "When do we leave?"

"Today." Napoleon nodded at the envelope she held in her hands. "Your tickets are in there."

She reached in and pulled out tickets for a flight leaving at eight o'clock.

April checked her watch and started making calculations. Forty-five minutes to drive to their apartments. An hour to pack up and prepare, and thank goodness she had a spare suitcase, with hers sitting abandoned in a London hotel room. An hour more to get back to the airport. Yes, they would have enough time to make it. Just.

"One last thing. How will we recognize Möller?"

Illya reached into his pocket and handed her a small snapshot.

"The photo is nearly ten years old, but she hasn't changed that much."

The image in her hand showed a much younger Illya Kuryakin with a young woman of about his age. She was agreeable looking, with a round face and short, curly hair. She was laughing uproariously at something. Illya's mouth was held in that way he had when trying not to smile.

"She was a friend of yours." Her statement was not quite a question.

"Yes. At the time." He looked at her seriously. "Things change, April. She is not to be trusted unconditionally."

"I understand," April said, and tucked the photo into her handbag, the face already memorized. "Now, could one of you give us a ride?"

"Illya will," Napoleon replied. "I'll be staying here with Vassili. Miles Bronowski and Frank Leung are taking charge of him soon." April raised her eyebrows. "Waverly trusts them, at least enough to give them this assignment."

"We should be going then."

"Yes, you should." Napoleon checked his own watch. "You should have no problem getting your things and getting out to the airport in time. You know how my partner drives."

"I resent that, Napoleon."

April threw an arm around an indignant Illya.

"He's just jealous of your talents, Illya."

"I won't dignify that with a response," Napoleon shot back, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now, get out of here, you two."

April stepped forward to give her CEA a decidedly un-businesslike hug.

"Take care of yourself, Napoleon."

"You too, April."

She shook Vassili's hand. Mark said goodbye to Napoleon and Vassili. Then, before she knew it, they were back in the car, heading into Manhattan and deciding who should be dropped at their apartment first and what gear they should take with them.

She concentrated on the business at hand and pushed her unease at this whole assignment to the portion of her mind where she kept all the other human concerns incompatible with the job of an Enforcement agent.

She would do her job, help save the world and then, if she was lucky, she would have the leisure to think about what it all meant.

* * *

Mark couldn't help it. Every time he flew into Berlin, he got a tingle of excitement. There was so much activity going on beneath the surface of the city  more spies per square mile than any other city on the planet  that he couldn't fail to be energized by it.

Still, the sensation was something of a guilty pleasure. He knew, for example, that Napoleon and Illya hated the city on some level, that they found the constant intrigue that you were inevitably drawn into when you were in the business and in this place more exhausting than exhilarating.

In spite of this knowledge, there was still a spring in his step and a hint of a smile on his face as he and April stepped into the arrivals hall of the Berlin airport.

His partner was looking less happy to be here. More than anything, she was looking tired. Which was understandable, really. They had done two transatlantic flights in the past forty-eight hours and had blessed little sleep in the meantime. Knowing what their assignment was, and its importance, they had made sure that one of them was always awake on the flight to Berlin.

They had retrieved their luggage and were now looking for the woman who was to meet them.

According to the information Napoleon had supplied them with, Ingrid Möller had been working in Section Eight as a research scientist, but had moved to Section Two when it had opened up to women. She was nearly Illya's age, but had only been working as an Enforcement agent a year.

Mark was curious to meet Miss Möller. He was interested in anyone who had known Illya when he was younger. Part of his interest was, admittedly, the junior agent's never-ending quest for social blackmail material on his superiors. But he was also genuinely interested in what had made both of his friends the men they were today.

He was also drawn to the women who worked in Section Two. It was an occupational hazard of being paired with the first female Enforcement agent, he supposed. Or perhaps he was naturally attracted to strong women. Either way, he was looking forward to meeting Möller.

* * *

There were days when it just didn't pay to get out of bed, and this seemed to be one of them.

Sitting around the airport in the hopes that a suspected agent would just happen to stroll by had to be one of the worst assignments in the city, but then, you didn't question the orders of the local Satrapy. Not if you wanted to live out the week.

Josef Schmidt was beginning to think that his dreams of grandeur were going nowhere fast, and that joining Thrush might not have been the smartest thing he'd ever done.

He shifted on the hard plastic seat he was occupying and played with the strap of his camera. He was both bored with his assignment and terrified that his superiors might consider that he hadn't done it well enough. It was an uncomfortable state of mind to be in.

A flash of red hair caught his eye. He focused more closely on its owner, hoping that it might be a pretty girl. And was rewarded when that owner just happened to be April Dancer, from the New York offices of U.N.C.L.E. He blinked, certain that his eyes were playing tricks on him. He wasn't used to high profile enemy agents simply appearing in front of him. But no, it was indeed Dancer, and the blond young man beside her had to be Mark Slate.

Schmidt stared stupidly at the U.N.C.L.E. agents for a moment before he remembered his assignment and snapped several pictures of them. He then moved into an alcove to wait and see if they made contact with anyone else. His gambit was rewarded several minutes later when a brown haired woman of around thirty greeted them. He thought he recognized her from the list of U.N.C.L.E. agents from the Berlin office. He quickly took several more pictures and then watched as the trio gathered together and started to leave the arrivals hall.

He waited until he was positive he wouldn't be observed by them, and then left himself. He couldn't wait to have the pictures developed. Maybe this would be the break he needed to be given more high profile assignments.

Whistling happily, if tunelessly, to himself, he began his journey to the Berlin Satrapy.

It hadn't been such a bad day after all.

* * *

Mark and April spotted Möller amongst the crowds in the arrivals hall. With her sandy brown hair and her pleasant features, she was an older, if mostly unchanged version of the woman in the photograph Illya had given them.

Möller greeted them with a nod and an extended hand.

" _Herr_ Slate, _Fraulein_ Dancer."

" _Guten Abend_ , _Fraulein_ Möller. _Wie geht's_?" Mark said in his best German. He kissed her extended hand in true continental fashion.

Möller quirked an eyebrow at April in bemusement.

"Is he always like this?" she asked, in English.

"You'll get used to him," April replied, an impish expression on her face.

"Ah," Möller replied.

"Don't mind me, ladies," Mark said. "Talk amongst yourselves."

April linked arms with him.

"He's really quite a doll, once you get to know him."

"That's it. I know when I'm outnumbered. I surrender."

"You have him very well trained," Möller offered.

"Thank you," April said, pertly. Mark rolled his eyes, and was punched on the arm.

"Ow."

"Crybaby," April said in a stage whisper.

With a brief grin, Ingrid Möller led them out of the terminal.

"I'm afraid, _Fraulein_ Dancer, that we will have to take a cab into the city. The motor pool had nothing available until tomorrow."

"That's fine. And you can call me April." She pointed at her partner. "He's Mark."

"And you may call me Ingrid."

"Will we be going to the office first, Ingrid?"

"I suggest we avoid the office entirely. Mr. Waverly insisted I not bring any materials associated with this assignment there."

Mark and April nodded in understanding. Illya and Napoleon had told them that the old man had kept Rodchenko's presence in New York hidden from all but a few, trusted personnel.

"I will take you to your hotel and we can discuss how to proceed."

They spent the taxi ride into the city chatting about the inconsequential things common to most travelers. If the driver was a Thrush plant, he learned nothing more interesting than the locations of a good coffeehouse and Ingrid's favorite _bierhalle_.

The hotel they had been booked into was a small, quiet place in the Western sector, catering to the family trade. They had adjoining rooms that were not overly large, but were impeccably clean. A shared bath was located down the hall.

Before they said a word, they checked the room for listening devices with the equipment Ingrid supplied. Only when the room had been given the all clear did they discuss their assignment.

"I assume you have received the same dossiers on the suspected Thrush infiltrators that I did," Ingrid began.

"I believe so." April took the lead. "We were told there are two main suspects: Gregori Makharov and Jonathan Moore."

Ingrid nodded.

"That's what I was told as well."

"Do you know either man?" Mark asked.

"Moore was assigned to the Berlin U.N.C.L.E. office three months ago. I haven't worked with him, but he doesn't seem like the type to change sides. But Makharov." Her expression changed to one of disgust. "I could believe anything of him."

"Have you any concrete evidence?"

"No. But he does seem to have a bit too much cash for a low level KGB operative."

"That will be something to keep an eye on," April said. "In the meantime, how do you think we should proceed?"

"In the documents Waverly sent me, he suggested maintaining surveillance of both men's flats. That might give us a further direction to go in."

"Sounds good. Though with only three of us, we'll need a rotating schedule for the observation posts."

"I can draw one up," Ingrid offered. "The boys in the lab always let me draw up the experiment roster for the larger labs."

"How nice of them," April said dryly.

"Actually, it was. It meant I got to choose the best times for myself." Ingrid gave a quick grin. "I can also requisition voice activated tape recorders to cover times when we need to leave either post."

"Then we only need to find places to set up the surveillance and plant the bugs."

"Which we can start on tomorrow." Ingrid said, giving the two New York agents a searching look. "You two look _total am Ende_."

"Pardon?" April asked.

"Knackered," Mark translated.

"Oh," April said, then gave an enormous yawn. "I believe you're right."

"I'll pick you up at 9 a.m. tomorrow." Ingrid said, heading for the door. "If you're hungry, there is a nice café across the street."

"Thank you," Mark said, and then the German operative was out the door.

They never made it to the café. They were both were asleep minutes after Ingrid's exit.

* * *

####  _Wednesday, April 13, 1966_

Not everyone enjoyed flying into Hong Kong's Kai Tak Airport. The runway approach, immediately over and between the high rises of the city itself, could induce a cold sweat panic in the most experienced of travelers.

Napoleon Solo was no exception. He was all too aware of the catastrophe that would result if one jet went even slightly off course. He looked out the window and was jolted as he saw a family of five sitting down to dinner in one of the surrounding buildings.

He turned to his partner, hoping for a little sympathy. He should have known better. Illya was peering around his shoulder for a better view, a look of open curiosity and fascination on his face.

"Exhilarating, isn't it?" Illya said.

Napoleon gave him a sour look.

"The next time you complain about sea-sickness on the Pursang, I'll tell you it's exhilarating."

"Spoilsport."

Other than Napoleon's unease, they landed without incident. They retrieved their baggage quickly and ventured out to the arrival's area.

They were supposed to be met by Hong Kong's CEA, Martin Lau Ming. Lau had been in charge of the Hong Kong office since his boss' murder. Napoleon had read the man's records. He was an exemplary agent and was proving to be an excellent leader. He had done all he could to find Richard Yuen's killer, though without success so far.

But they were not yet certain that Lau, or any other agent in Hong Kong, was not part of the conspiracy.

To get them into the colony, Waverly had arranged to have them deliver the weekly package of orders from New York. They would remain in Hong Kong under Waverly's command.

Napoleon was hopeful that they could clear Lau and bring him into their confidence. He looked to be a valuable ally, or a formidable opponent.

Surrounded by a flurry of humanity, Napoleon scanned the arrival hall of the airport. In amongst taxi touts and reunited families, there was one man who stood out by his stillness. Napoleon looked closer and confirmed that it was Lau. He jostled Illya's elbow to direct his attention toward the Hong Kong CEA, and then they both moved in his direction.

Lau caught sight of them as they approached and gave a slight wave. He was a thin man of average height, dressed in an impeccable charcoal gray suit. Napoleon made a note to get the name of the man's tailor. Napoleon knew that Lau was in his late thirties, but his face made it hard to guess his age; he still had some of the look of youth, though there were lines around his eyes that gave him an air of weariness.

Illya, with his knowledge of Cantonese, led the way.

" _Lau sinsaang, neih hou mah_?" How are you.

" _Hou hou, Kuryakin sinsaang. Yau sam_." Good, thank you. "But we must not exclude Mr. Solo." Lau switched easily to British accented English.

"Hello, Mr. Lau."

"Mr. Solo." They shook hands.

Napoleon had long ago learned to trust his instincts  it was part of what had made him such a good spy  and his instincts told him he should trust Martin Lau. The man seemed forthright and honest, though he did seem to be holding something back. He hoped they would be able to confirm his instincts soon and bring Lau into their trust.

"You've had a long flight. Should I take you to the safe house, or would you like to go immediately to the office?"

"The office, I think. But we won't be staying in the safe house."

"No?" Lau said warily.

"Mr. Waverly has arranged our accommodations personally," Illya offered.

"Oh," Lau responded. His tone was neutral, but Napoleon could detect a hint of suspicion behind it. "May I ask where?"

"I'm sorry, but he has asked us not to say. Need to know." Napoleon invoked the phrase that all agents, no matter their allegiance, respected.

"I understand," Lau said, and immediately changed the subject.

Napoleon was sorry that they could not inform Lau where they were staying. He felt as though they had immediately put a foot wrong with the man.

On the other hand, if Lau was a Thrush agent, they had as much as told him that they were investigating him. All three of them were aware that the courier assignment that Napoleon and Illya had been given was merely an excuse to get them to Hong Kong.

Either way, their hand had been tipped.

There was nothing to do but conduct their investigation and see what happened.

Lau drove them himself. Napoleon relaxed in the back seat, letting Illya be the sociable one for a change. He fell asleep on the ferry ride from Kowloon to Central, but jolted awake when the large boat bumped against the pier. He rubbed his face with one hand, willing himself awake. Sleep was not a luxury he could allow himself for some time yet.

Lau took them to the U.N.C.L.E. offices, hidden behind the front of an import/export business. The building was within sight of the Legislative Council building and the Star Ferry docks.

Once they were safely inside the headquarters and in Lau's private office, Illya turned over the courier package that was their pretext for being there. Lau locked the envelope into the main safe.

"What would you gentlemen like to do now?" Lau asked, clearly uncertain as to what his guests had planned.

Napoleon caught Illya's eye and nodded. It was Illya who responded to their host.

"We're most interested in seeing your facilities here and meeting your staff."

Lau's look turned wary, but to his credit, he indulged them.

"Of course, gentlemen. If you'd follow me."

Lau showed them all of the facilities, from the communications center to the agents' change room. And he introduced them to every person they met, from every section.

They were lucky. All of their main suspects were currently in the office and they got to meet them all.

Victoria Chan had been Yuen's personal assistant, a tiny woman who radiated an energetic efficiency and spoke English with a clipped English accent. She was polite to the visiting agents, but not overly friendly. Napoleon got the definite sense that she was holding something back. She was clearly upset at her superior's murder, but whether she had been the cause was impossible to say.

Yam Kai Fai was a senior Enforcement agent, second in command only to Lau. He was a broad-shouldered man, as tall as Napoleon and effusively friendly. He greeted both Napoleon and Illya with hearty handshakes and an invitation to join him for an afternoon at the Happy Valley racetrack. Napoleon nearly laughed when Illya turned down the invitation with an almost icy politeness.

Will Andrews was their last suspect, an ex-pat Brit who had lived in Hong Kong since he joined U.N.C.L.E. in the late fifties. Napoleon briefly remembered the Andrews had been at the Survival School the year after he had. Andrews had the perfect manners borne of a British public school education, and some of the aloofness.

No single one of their suspects struck him as particularly guilty, though all three seemed like they might be hiding something, even the effusive Yam. But then, all the other members of the Hong Kong team had been similarly reserved and even slightly on edge. Napoleon could understand their reactions; if Waverly had been assassinated, no one in the New York office would have been unaffected.

As they finished the tour, Napoleon felt his long denied jet lag beginning to creep up on him. Illya couldn't be in much better shape, though he was hiding it well. They both needed sleep.

He made his excuses to Lau, and got the Hong Kong CEA to sign them out a car from the motor pool. He let Illya take the driver's seat. The Russian knew the streets of the city far better than he ever would.

"Home, James," Napoleon directed. Illya shot him a sour look, but took the car out into the bustling traffic of Hong Kong.

He fell asleep almost immediately, trusting his partner to get him where they were going safely, and didn't wake up until Illya's hand on his shoulder let him know they had arrived.

* * *

After a good German breakfast of bread, cheese and hot chocolate, April, Mark and Ingrid spent most of the following day driving through the city, checking out the areas surrounding their two subjects' flats, accumulating the equipment they would need and subletting two flats to use for the surveillance posts.

One of the worst parts of the job was the fact that the two locations were on opposite sides of the Wall. By the end of the day, the guards at the checkpoint had gotten to know the three U.N.C.L.E. agents rather too well. Though they were stopped each time they crossed, the guards spent more time gossiping with them than checking their identification the last time they passed through the gates.

The most nerve-wracking part of setting up the observation posts had been bugging the flats. They'd had to confirm that each flat was empty, and then send one person in to plant the listening devices while the other two made sure they were not interrupted. April had been planting the bugs in Makharov's flat when Mark had given her a false alarm about the KGB agent's return. She had half-jokingly threatened to kill her partner when it was all over.

The flats of both men had been given a cursory search at the same time, but neither had revealed anything of interest, other than Moore's affection for British football magazines and Makharov's stockpile of Stolichnaya vodka. Given their countries of origin, neither discovery had been that much of a surprise.

April wished that just one of the men had concealed a large folder under his mattress with the label Thrush Secrets Hidden Here.' It would have taken the guesswork out of the assignment. And right now, all they had was guesswork.

At the moment, April was observing Jonathan Moore's very empty and very uninteresting flat. She hated surveillance work. Especially when she had to do it alone. She would much rather throw herself into a role and go undercover, even if it was more dangerous.

She went over the schedule in her head, unhappily realizing it would be nearly three days before she and Mark shared the same post.

Sighing, she peered through the lens of the camera into Moore's empty flat and listened to the drip of his leaky kitchen faucet through her headphones.

Perhaps, if she was very lucky, she would be shot in a gun battle with the little old lady currently hauling her groceries down the street.

More probably, she would be doomed to watch this apartment until she expired from boredom.

* * *

Lau Ming, Martin Lau to his English-speaking friends, sat in his office in the Hong Kong headquarters of U.N.C.L.E. and considered his guests.

Every agent in U.N.C.L.E. knew about Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. They were Waverly's top team in New York and had worked all over the world. They were as famous for their successes as they were for being an American/Soviet team. This was the first time Lau had met the two personally.

He wasn't entirely sure what they were doing here, but he could guess. And it had nothing to do with delivering a courier package for Mr. Waverly.

As he saw it, there were two choices.

He hoped they were here to flush out the Thrush spy that he had become more certain than ever had taken up residence within the U.N.C.L.E. offices. He was sick of shouldering that burden alone, uncertain of whom he could trust, if anyone.

He feared that they were part of the conspiracy that had resulted in Yuen's death. Which led to the even more terrifying conclusion that Waverly himself was part of the cabal.

He would rather have Solo and Kuryakin as allies than enemies, but he tried to prepare himself for either alternative. It would be difficult if he was forced to work against them. He honestly liked both men.

Kuryakin was an agreeable enigma. How a Russian had ever learned quite passable Cantonese was a mystery, even for a spy. He was reserved, but still friendly, and had seemed honestly interested in the sights of Hong Kong that Lau pointed out on the drive to the office.

Solo was as outwardly friendly as his partner was, but Lau had the feeling that there was much that he was holding back. He felt as if Solo were constantly appraising him, passing judgment. But since Lau was making his own judgment on the two men, he supposed he couldn't complain.

Sipping on the jasmine tea he favored in times of stress, Lau sat back and tried to plan for all eventualities.

* * *

Dr. Madelyn Egret stared at the photographs in front of her and wondered if they spelled the doom of her operation, or signaled its imminent success.

Things were entering a dangerous phase. Thrush was making bold moves to consolidate its power and eliminate its enemies in preparation for delivering the final blow. All of which meant that they were more prone to discovery now than at any other time in this whole business. If Slate and Dancer were here in Berlin, it might mean that old fool Waverly was taking things seriously. She would have to proceed carefully from now on.

Egret studied the faces of the young U.N.C.L.E. agents, as if the photograph would magically yield a weakness she could wield against them. When no such mystical solution presented itself, she threw down the photos and did the next best thing. She called down to records and ordered up the files on Slate, Dancer and the German agent, Möller. If divine intervention wasn't going to provide the answer, perhaps a more prosaic method would prevail.

Three hours later, having waded through the mounds of documents available on the three agents, she had her weapon. Dancer and Slate were not the key. They were both young enough that they had no history she could exploit, but Möller was a different story entirely. Möller had one very interesting weakness.

Egret picked up the phone and began to set her plan

into motion.

* * *

Illya gave a low whistle as he pulled their car up in front of the house they would be occupying during their stay in Hong Kong. Mr. Waverly had outdone himself this time. It was almost enough to make up for all the times they had been forced to stay in flea infested slums.

The house was set on Victoria Peak, the highest point on the island and the most exclusive neighborhood in the colony. The residence belonged to the British Governor, and was usually used by visiting dignitaries. Waverly had called in a few favors and obtained its use for his two agents because the house's security system would make sure they at least had warning of Thrush infiltration. That it was a palatial residence, by Hong Kong standards at least, was a fortunate bonus.

The house was built like an English country estate, but with definite Oriental accents that made its location clear. It was surrounded by a lush Chinese garden, with thousands of shades of green shifting subtly through the grounds. Illya found the lack of flowers in Asian gardens a comforting change from the riot of colors that one found in their Western counterparts.

Illya parked the car on the gated grounds before he woke Napoleon up. He was feeling the lure of sleep himself, the inevitable consequence of traveling for over a day. He pushed the feeling away. They had several tasks to perform before they could give in to fatigue.

After stowing their luggage in the bedroom, they both set out to check the security of their lodgings. Napoleon took the inside while Illya checked the grounds. He made sure there were no breaches in the fence, and looked for signs of intruders. When he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he returned to inside the house to find Napoleon sprawled on the couch in the living room, valiantly attempting to remain awake.

"Everything secure?" he asked his exhausted companion.

"Looks like it. You can always trust British security to think of everything."

"Thankfully." Illya collapsed on the couch, leaning heavily against Napoleon.

"So, what do you think?"

"About what?" Illya decided to be deliberately dense.

"About our suspects. About Lau." Napoleon gave an expansive wave. "About the whole assignment."

"I think we don't yet know enough to judge our suspects. They all might be in on it. Or it might be someone else entirely."

"And Lau?"

"I think he is a good man trying to do his best in a bad situation."

"You're sure?" Napoleon looked at him with a mixture of hope and skepticism.

"Not positive, no. But I am inclined to trust him. If the evidence points that way."

"Evidence. It would have been nice if Major General Antonenko could have provided something a little more concrete."

"She did her best, Napoleon."

"You're right," Napoleon said. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

"In the absent of evidence, what we both need now is sleep," Illya said, pointing out the obvious.

"A wonderful suggestion." Napoleon pushed himself off the couch, then offered Illya a hand up. Instead of releasing him once Illya was standing, Napoleon wrapped him in a firm hug. Illya relaxed into the embrace, enjoying the warm comfort of his partner's arms.

"I don't like this," Napoleon whispered in his ear.

"Nor do I. But we have survived worse."

"Have we? A conspiracy of this size?"

Instead of replying, Illya simply squeezed his partner, his love, hard and then released him.

"Come on. Maybe you won't be so morose after a good night's sleep."

Napoleon snorted, but followed him into the bedroom with no complaint.

They both decided to sleep in just their pajama bottoms, the heat of the day keeping them from wearing more and the dangers of the assignment preventing them from even considering sleeping nude. After making sure both of their guns were placed under the pillows, they crawled into the enormous master bed together. Illya sighed in contentment as Napoleon spooned himself around him. His partner's breathing drifted quickly into the easy rhythms of sleep.

In spite of his exhaustion, it took Illya a little longer to find the tranquillity of such repose.

Napoleon was right to be nervous. Illya tried to still his own Slavic pessimism and to clear his mind, to concentrate only on the man at his side. There would be time enough for worry.

* * *

####  _Thursday, April 14, 1966_

Ingrid Möller gripped the wheel of her car tightly as she drove toward her flat in the Western sector of the city.

She had just dropped April at the observation post for Makharov's flat. Mark remained at the post for Moore's. She was taking one of the unfortunately few breaks their surveillance schedule allowed. She was not due back at the Moore post until the next morning and was planning on taking advantage of the opportunity to shower and sleep in her own flat.

She tried to ease the tension in her shoulders as she considered their assignment. She was having no trouble believing that Gregori Makharov was a possible Thrush agent. The KGB operative had oozed untrustworthiness on the few occasions she had encountered him. She was less blasé about Jonathan Moore being under suspicion. Though the Englishman had only been assigned to the Berlin office for three months, she had always found him a pleasant fellow. She had to force herself to remember that there were few people who were not under suspicion.

She was glad that April and Mark were obviously considered to be above reproach by Waverly. They both seemed like genuinely nice people, and had the added attraction of being friends with Illya Kuryakin. Though they hadn't stayed in touch, she and Illya had been close companions when they had both been in the Berlin research department. She enjoyed hearing about Illya's exploits in New York almost as much as she enjoyed supplying the two younger agents with embarrassing stories about the Russian's early days in U.N.C.L.E.

She sighed, and forced her mind to return to the less pleasant matter of their mission. She started to go over the list of errands she needed to run in the morning. Pick up some extra equipment April had asked for at headquarters. Get breakfast for April and Mark. Drop off April's breakfast and relieve Mark.

At the next stoplight, she was so caught up in retracing the steps they had taken to bug Makharov's flat, that she could not react in time when a man opened the passenger door of her car and placed a gun

 

against her side.

"Keep driving," he said, in a growling voice.

She tried to look more closely at his face.

"Eyes forward," he barked, as he ground the gun barrel into her ribs. She obeyed.

He directed her through the streets of Berlin with terse commands, punctuated with the threat of his gun. The entire time she kept a sharp eye out for an opportunity to disarm him, but he was professional enough that such an opportunity never arose.

She grew hopeful when they approached Checkpoint Charlie. No one could pass through to East Berlin unchallenged. She tensed, awaiting her chance.

Unbelievably, the guards on both sides of the border waved them through without a second look. Ingrid's fear ratcheted up several notches as she realized the magnitude of what must be going on. Even after they had crossed the border four times yesterday with U.N.C.L.E. credentials, they'd still had to stop the car and confirm their identity. These guards had clearly been paid off by someone powerful.

They left the outskirts of the city and drove into the countryside. The number of cars became fewer until they found themselves on a seemingly abandoned dirt road. Looking around them, the man ordered her to pull the car over.

"Out," he said, and this time she didn't try to resist.

She was made to put on a blindfold and then bundled into the boot of the car. She was briefly glad she had signed out one of the larger American cars out of the car pool, but even the relatively spacious boot became uncomfortable as they bounced along on unpaved roads. She tried to keep track of their route, but that quickly became impossible. Time itself became an indefinite entity, unwinding in fits and starts.

Eventually, the car stopped and she was pulled out of the boot and dragged along by two people. She could tell they were walking on a hard surface, and that they had entered some sort of building, but that was all.

She was sat down on a wooden chair, and then the two people left. As soon as she heard a door close, she removed the blindfold.

The room she was in gave away nothing about her location. It was a grim, featureless cinderblock affair, lit by a single, unshaded bulb suspended from the ceiling. She was its only occupant, though there was a battered desk and another chair in front of her.

She was just about to try the door, when it opened to admit one person.

The woman wasn't anyone she recognized, but Ingrid would have bet money that she was Thrush. She was a handsome woman in her mid-forties, but her looks were marred by the arrogance that seemed the common character trait of all high-level Thrush. She had a gun aimed straight at Ingrid's head and an envelope in her hand.

The woman sat at the desk, not taking her eyes off Ingrid as she did so. She opened the envelope with one hand and spread its contents, a number of photos, on the desk.

"Miss Möller," the woman said in English marked by a flat American accent. "How nice to finally meet you in person."

"I wish I could say the same."

The woman ignored her response and gestured at the pictures in front of her.

"I have something here that I thought you might be interested in."

Ingrid craned her neck forward to look at the pictures. She was expecting pictures of secret U.N.C.L.E. outposts or captured agents. She was not expecting to see pictures of what appeared to be a ten-year-old girl at school and in a park.

"I need some assistance from someone within U.N.C.L.E., and you seem to be the perfect person to provide it."

"I don't think so."

"Don't be so hasty." The woman gave her an unpleasant looking smile. "Hear me out first.

"What I require is regular reports on the activities of April Dancer and Mark Slate. Since you appear to be their liaison in Berlin, you are ideally situated to provide this service for me."

Ingrid couldn't help laughing. The woman was clearly mad.

"And why would I do that for you?" she asked.

The woman's smile became even more unpleasant. She picked up one of the pictures and threw it into Ingrid's lap.

"If you don't, I will have this child killed in the most disagreeable way possible."

Ingrid was horrified, but she still couldn't see what special hold the woman thought she had over her.

"Regrettable, but I still can't help you."

"You don't still don't understand, do you? Take a good look at that girl."

Ingrid did, and found herself looking at a open-faced girl with short brown pigtails and a faint sprinkling of freckles. There was nothing remarkable about the girl, and certainly nothing about her that was familiar. Unless...

"Now I want you to think back to what you were doing ten years ago."

 _Mein gott_ .

"Good, I see you realize who she is, now."

Ingrid did. She could see the way the girl's freckles were exactly like her father's. How her eyes were exactly the same color as his. And she could see that the girl's face was exactly the same shape that her own had been at that age.

"How did you find her?" she whispered.

"It wasn't at all difficult. Once we found out that you had given up a

 

child for adoption nearly ten years ago, it was merely a matter of checking records. A family in Mainz adopted her. She seems very happy. And we are prepared to kill her at any time, unless you do exactly as we say."

Ingrid tried to breathe. She thought she had put all of this behind her. Had nearly forgotten the grief of letting her child be raised by strangers, of never seeing her again. And now the child's fate was again being put in her hands.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I'm glad you're being sensible. As I said before, we want reports on the movement of Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate. Who they are investigating, what they have found. We will contact you at regular intervals to collect the information."

The woman threw a small metal disk at her. She caught it automatically and held it in her hand as if it were a deadly insect. She knew what it was.

"We also ask that you keep this with you at all times. It's a listening device and a position marker. We want to ensure that you don't give our little game away to your U.N.C.L.E. colleagues."

Ingrid nodded, unable to speak for the moment.

"Good. I'm glad you understand." The woman snapped her fingers and two men entered the room. "And now we must send you back to your own apartment.

One of the men approached her, his gun raised, butt first. Ingrid tensed, knowing what was coming. He struck her on the side of the head, the pain biting deep. She began to lose consciousness. The last thing she saw, before the blackness claimed her, was the photo of the girl drifting slowly to the gritty, gray floor.

* * *

She woke up in her own apartment, sprawled on the living room floor. For a brief second, she was unable to remember how she had gotten there, but then memory flooded back, bringing with it an overwhelming nausea.

She only barely made to the toilet in time.

Afterward, she sat on the floor, her head resting against the cool tile wall, her hands splayed out at her side.

She felt utterly drained and completely alone.

She did not want to betray U.N.C.L.E. More than anything, her position as an Enforcement agent defined her identity. But she could not abandon her daughter a second time. Couldn't have her killed by some faceless Thrush minion when she could do something to stop it.

So, for the moment, she would play the game. She would give this woman the information she wanted.

But she would not give up hope. She would find some way out of this trap. Find a way to save her child and serve the Command.

Or she would die trying.

* * *

####  _Saturday, April 16, 1966_

The name Chungking Mansions had a grand sound to it. If you had never been there, you might expect it to be the sort of place where millionaires dined out and jet setting playboys indulged in their pleasures.

The reality was quite different.

The Mansions was a sprawling, block long complex of flats and factories, cheap restaurants and cheaper hotels. It was a self-contained slum parked right in the middle of Hong Kong's main shopping district. It was a place where you went if you had no money or no hope.

Anthony Wong had never considered that he would need to seek out the haven of the Mansions. He had somehow managed to pretend that he was just another middle class worker, with an apartment in the New Territories and a job in Tsim Sha Tsui. He had managed to delude himself into thinking that even though he worked for Thrush and spied for U.N.C.L.E., under the code name Tiger, nothing bad would ever touch him.

Then he had witnessed the murder of Richard Yuen. Worse still, he had been seen by the murderer. And recognized.

Now he was on the run, holed up in a tiny one room flat with leaky plumbing an infestation of insects. And he wasn't sure how he was going to survive the next week.

His mistake had been to rely on Yuen. He had always thought that if things got too hot, that Yuen could pull him out, set him up some place where Thrush would never find him. He hadn't considered what would happen if Yuen was dead.

But he had just heard a rumor that might prove to be his salvation. Two U.N.C.L.E. agents had arrived from New York, Solo and Kuryakin. Wong had heard of the two mentheir names surfaced frequently in reports of operations gone wrongand knew that they could be trusted to be loyal to U.N.C.L.E. He was hoping that they could offer him protection in return for the identity of Yuen's killer.

First, however, he had to find them and arrange a rendezvous with them.

He got out pencil and paper and began to make his plans.

* * *

April Dancer leaned back in the rickety wooden chair and rubbed her eyes. She was going to go cross-eyed if she had to stare through the viewfinder of that camera at Gregori Makharov's flat anymore. And she was convinced that the earphones from the tape recorder were beginning to wear a groove in her head.

"I hate this," she said with vehemence, throwing the earphones onto the bed behind her.

"I know," was the muffled response from her partner. He was trying to nap on the massively uncomfortable bed, and had his head buried beneath a pillow to block out the light.

"No you don't," she said petulantly. "You have no idea."

Mark tossed the pillow aside and sat up, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep and his hair in disarray.

"Yes I do, love. You keep telling me. At great length."

"Well, I really hate it."

"I know."

"And I'm extremely bored."

Mark sighed and stood up.

"Well, as I seem to be awake now, I might as well keep you company."

April had the grace to look sheepish as well as grateful.

"Sorry, Mark."

"Don't be. It is boring and tedious work. You've discovered the secret shame of espionage agents everywhere."

April snorted and turned her full attention back to the flat across the road. Mark put the earphones on her head before pulling a chair up beside her.

"Anything happen while I was trying to sleep?"

"If it had, I wouldn't be bored, would I?"

"I suppose," Mark conceded.

"Do you think he's really part of Thrush?"

"Makharov?"

"Yes, Makharov." April waved across the way at the man's apartment. "Do you think this whole conspiracy is real?"

Mark was quiet for a long minute before answering.

"Something is going on. If not a Thrush plot, then something else. And Makharov's lifestyle does seem a bit extravagant for an average KGB operative."

Looking across the street at Makharov's apartment, April had to agree. The place was not opulent, but had rather more luxuries than one would expect to find in a KGB apartment. Still, having a few comforts wasn't proof of involvement with Thrush. Not by itself.

April decided to change the topic.

"What do you think of Ingrid?"

"How do you mean?"

"I'm making conversation, Mark. If you can't keep up your end, go back to sleep."

"Are we having a conversation? I thought we were relieving your boredom."

"I swear you've been spending too much time with Illya, Mark. Is he giving you sarcasm lessons?"

"I can manage sarcasm without the help of our esteemed senior colleague, thank you very much. And to answer your earlier question, I like Ingrid." He paused for moment before continuing. "But there is something..." He trailed off, as if he wasn't certain of how to continue.

"What?"

"I'm not sure. She seems rather nervous a lot of the time."

April considered that statement before answering.

"You're right. Although I'm a bit nervous myself. This assignment is enough to give anyone the willies."

"Is that an official spy term?" Mark said, laughing.

In response, she reached over and punched him.

They sat for nearly an hour in companionable silence, trading off on watching the flat across the street.

At the end of the hour, Mark stood and stretched in an attempt to get the blood flowing in his body.

"Time for me to go relieve Ingrid."

"Mark, be careful." She disliked the fact that they had to cross through Checkpoint Charlie to move between the two observation sites. Moving across the no man's land between the two borders always made her feel incredibly exposed.

"I will, love." Mark leaned over and gave her a brotherly peck on the forehead.

"I mean it, Mark. Don't make me have to come and rescue you."

"You're the one stuck in the Soviet sector for the next twelve hours. By yourself." He squeezed her shoulder. "So, you be careful too."

"I will."

Mark closed the door behind him, and April was left alone in the flat. Nothing but the tedium of an observation assignment and the terror of knowing that absolutely anyone could be their enemy. Someone really should warn all the baby spies at Survival School that this was the kind of thing they had to look forward to.

* * *

####  _Sunday, April 17, 1966_

She had received the summons earlier today as she drove from Makharov's flat back to Moore's. While waiting at the stoplight, a young boy had tapped on the window of her car. When she had rolled down the window, he had dropped an envelope in her lap and run away before she could question him.

And now she was here, sitting on the platform of the Potsdammerplatz U-Bahn station, waiting for the next train, her stomach tied in knots, her hands shaken by fine tremors.

The train pulled in, and Ingrid stepped into the near empty car and found a seat in one corner. She checked out her fellow passengers, but none of them looked like a Thrush contact. She settled in for the wait and hoped that her handler would join her soon.

Two stops later, the woman who had drafted her into this cabal entered the train and sat beside her. Ingrid clenched her hands into fists. She wished she could simply kill this woman and be done with it, but she knew that would solve nothing. Her daughter would die and she would still be a traitor to U.N.C.L.E.

The woman smiled at her but said nothing. At the next stop, the two remaining people in the car exited. When the doors had closed behind them, the woman turned to Ingrid.

"You followed our instructions well."

"I had no choice, did I?" Ingrid replied, all too aware of the bitterness in her own voice.

"Of course not." He smile grew wider and more unpleasant. "Do you have the package?"

Ingrid removed an envelope from her briefcase and passed it to the woman without a word. She hoped it contained enough to allay any Thrush suspicions.

She was playing a dangerous game and she knew it.

She couldn't refuse to give Thrush any information. That would result in the death of her daughter, and probably her own as well. But she would not give them anything that might help them. So, she had worked very carefully to make sure that she was exposed to as little that was useful as possible. She had arranged the surveillance schedule so that she spent more time at Jonathan Moore's house, convinced that the British agent was less likely to be a Thrush plant than Makharov. And while she read April and Mark's reports, she tried not to be around when they discussed their findings. With the bug she was obligated to carry with her, she could not risk the younger agents revealing anything that would be useful to Thrush.

It was a difficult game. And it was taking its toll, even after only four days.

Even her Thrush handler noticed her state.

"You don't look like you're getting enough sleep, my dear."

"I appreciate your concern, but I can look after myself," Ingrid snapped.

"I have absolutely no concern for you. But if you are not in peak condition you may make a mistake. And that would be my concern."

"At least you are honest."

"I'm never anything but."

Ingrid's skin itched from being so close to this woman. She craved escape.

"If that's all, may I leave now?" Ingrid began to stand as the train pulled into the next station.

The woman grabbed her hand and pulled her viciously back down into her seat.

"Not so fast. We have a new assignment for you."

Ingrid felt a pit widening in her stomach. What she was doing now was hard enough.

"You said you just wanted information."

"And now we want more. In case you've forgotten, we hold all the cards."

She was right, of course. Ingrid tried to relax in her seat and held her tongue. Perhaps the new task wouldn't be as bad as she feared.

"We aren't at all happy with the way things are going. Dancer and Slate haven't found anything, but they are well placed to discover things that we want to keep from them. It has therefore been decided to eliminate them." The woman stopped and looked in her direction.

Ingrid nearly bit through her lip trying to remain silent. _Mein gott_ , it was worse than she thought. They wanted her to be their assassin. And she had very little choice.

"I see that you understand what we want from you. That's good."

"How?" Ingrid whispered.

"We will leave the details to you. You work with them; you will know what method will be most effective. All we ask is that it be done in the next twenty-four hours."

"That's too soon," Ingrid stalled. "I need more time to plan."

"It is all the time you have."

The doors of the train swished open. The woman stepped through the doors, leaving Ingrid frozen in her seat.

"Twenty-four hours," she said one last time before striding purposefully down the platform. The doors slammed shut and the train started up with a jerk. Ingrid stared after the woman until she had long since disappeared.

The tremors she had tried to control in her hands returned tenfold.

She couldn't do this. Couldn't kill a fellow agent in cold blood.

Then she thought of the picture of her daughter, playing in a park, unaware of the forces that surrounded her.

And realized she had no choice.


	2. Chapter 2

####  _Monday, April 18, 1966_

He and Illya were waiting in the Man Mo Temple on Hollywood Road for another one of Illya's contacts to show up. In the past five days, they had meet with a half dozen men and women, searching for information on Yuen's assassination and the Thrush plot. So far, they had uncovered nothing but a lot of unhelpful rumors and some nervous people. It was frustrating.

Napoleon took a deep breath and tried to appreciate the peace of the place. It was certainly not like any Western place of worship. Large statues of the gods Man Cheong and Kwan Ti dominated the front of the temple, along with numerous altars and statues of lesser deities.

Huge coils of sandalwood incense burned overhead, filling the entire room with their sharp perfume. Every few minutes, a supplicant would enter and burn incense to the gods, requesting help in some venture. Numerous incense sellers could be found outside the temple, plying their trade with a cutthroat sense of competition.

Illya had told him on the way in that Kwan Ti, the god of War, had been adopted by both the police and thieves as their patron. Napoleon wondered if the old boy would be willing to take on a couple of spies as well. They appeared to need all the help they could get.

Napoleon kept unobtrusively to one corner of the temple. Illya was waiting at the front, by the main altar. Their contact was nearly half an hour late. Not that that was proving unusual in this city. All of the people they had met so far had been reluctant and worried, appearing late if at all.

Just as Napoleon was about to suggest that they give up and try again some other time, a skinny young man with stylish clothes and a shaggy haircut approached Illya. Napoleon paid close attention as the man spoke to his partner, his eyes darting around the temple. They spoke for perhaps two minutes before shaking hands, then the young man disappeared back out the door. Illya came over to join him.

"Well?" Napoleon asked.

"Nothing new. Everyone has heard the same rumors. Everyone is scared. Sam has offered to keep his ears open, but he had nothing to offer now."

"We're getting nowhere."

"I know. We may need to change our strategy."

"To what?" Napoleon asked in frustration.

"I'm not too sure." Illya looked around the temple, his eye caught by a few new arrivals. "But we should probably talk about this somewhere else. We've been in one spot too long."

"You're right."

As they passed by the incense sellers outside, something extraordinary happened. Most of the vendors completely ignored them. No one bought their wares when leaving the temple. But when they were a few steps away from the temple's gate, a middle-aged man in shabby clothes rushed up to them and pressed a bundle of incense into Illya's hand.

"A gift," he said in heavily accented English, before he ran down Ladder Street and disappeared into the maze of allies of the neighbourhood.

"That was odd," Napoleon said.

"Perhaps not," Illya replied and handed him the piece of paper that had been wrapped around the base of the incense.

It was a set of instructions for a meet later this afternoon in Kowloon Park.

It was signed with a single Chinese character.

"What does that mean?" Napoleon asked, pointing to the character.

"Tiger."

"The name of Yuen's mysterious informer."

"The same," Illya agreed, nodding.

Their luck appeared to have turned. Napoleon just wished he knew if it was for the better or the worse.

* * *

It seemed that the assignment might finally be on the verge of breaking.

Not that they had any hard evidence yet. There had been no smoking gun, no incriminating microdot. But there had been a series of phone calls Gregori Makharov had made to locations throughout Eastern Europe that had been exceedingly cryptic, even for a spy. And there had been rather a lot of phone calls made to Riga, the place where Major General Antonenko had been assassinated.

They had also heard some rather suspicious sounds from Makharov's bedroom this morning. Though they hadn't been able to see anything through the windows, it had sounded like he had opened a safe. A safe that could contain the documents they were looking for.

It was beginning to look like Makharov was their man. Now all they needed to do was get the evidence.

Mark looked over at his partner as she peered through the window.

"How's your Russian, love," he asked.

" _Zamechatelno, dorogoi malchik_ ," April said, with a toss of her hair. "And why do you ask?"

"Up to a little burglary?"

"You do know the way to a girl's heart." April nearly skipped around the room.

"I thought you might be up for a little action."

"And then some. When do you want to go in?"

"How about tonight? We can get Ingrid to leave on the voice activated recorders at Moore's flat and have her keep watch. We can go in and look at that safe Comrade Gregori seems to have hidden away."

"Mark, I could just about kiss you."

"Don't restrain yourself on my account."

April gave him a wink and a peck on the cheek.

"Do you want to call Ingrid, or shall I?"

"Since you're so excited by the prospect, I'll let you perform the honor."

"Good," April said, and had her communicator out in a flash.

"Open Channel E, scrambled. Ingrid?"

"Yes, April."

"We've got a job for you here. Can you get here by about seven o'clock?"

"That sounds fine."

"Great. See you then." April logged off, her effervescent mood suddenly restrained.

"Have you noticed anything odd about Ingrid the last day or two?" April asked in a way that was anything but off-hand.

"What do you mean?"

"She's been a little, I don't know, twitchy, lately. And it doesn't look like she's been sleeping much."

"None of us has been sleeping that much," Mark countered. "And as for being twitchy, it's probably just this city. Working in Berlin makes everyone uneasy after a while."

"Given that," April said in a leisurely way that immediately put Mark on his guard, "why do you like this place so much?"

"It's the pretty girls."

"Ah. You must mean that East German border guard at Checkpoint Charlie." April had a definite gleam in her eye. "I noticed the looks she gave you when we crossed through this morning."

"You're just jealous, love."

"You wish," April said, all doubts seemingly forgotten.

But Mark began to think very carefully about what April had said.

* * *

Napoleon and Illya moved away from Hollywood Road quickly, checking frequently to make sure they were not being followed. They needed a secure place to discuss their encounter at the temple, so Illya led them to a tea shop in Wan Chai he was familiar with.

The tea shop was on the second floor of a rickety older building, and was filled retired gentlemen and their caged pet birds. On his first visit to Hong Kong, Illya had been surprised by the Chinese practice of taking a pet bird for a walk, but now he accepted it without a thought.

They took a table near the rear of the shop, well away from any casual prying eyes. Their waiter was at first hostile to the _gweilos_ intruding in his establishment, but when Illya placed his order in fluent Cantonese, he merely shrugged, delivered their tea and ignored them along with his other charges.

Napoleon got straight to business.

"Do you think this Tiger is the killer?" Napoleon asked.

"I'm not sure," Illya said, then paused to consider further. "If we assume the man at the temple was Tiger, he didn't behave like an assassin."

"More like a man on the run," Napoleon said, completing his thought.

"Exactly."

"So, do we go to the meet?"

"What other choice do we have? It's the first thing resembling a lead that we've had."

"It might be a trap."

"This whole assignment is a trap, Napoleon. We don't know who we can trust."

"So, we trust no one." Napoleon's voice held a touch of melancholy.

"Except each other," Illya responded. That earned him a smile from his partner.

"I don't think we should call Waverly yet."

"I agree. We don't have any solid information yet, anyway."

They both sipped at their tea for a few minutes in contemplative silence. Illya checked his watch. It was just after eleven o'clock, leaving them more than four hours until the meeting with Tiger.

"What should we do now?" Illya asked as he finished the last of his tea.

"Back to the house?" suggested Napoleon. "At least we know it's secure."

"The house it is," Illya agreed.

They left their money on the table and headed back to their car.

Illya took the switchback roads up to the upper levels a bit faster than he needed to. He wasn't anxious, exactly, but he was beginning to feel the anticipation that accompanied any difficult assignment. They were both silent on the trip.

On arriving at the house, they double checked the security system and searched the grounds, finding no signs of entry. Too many people seemed to know they were on the island. They didn't want to be surprised by an intruder.

They both collapsed onto the couch in the living room. Illya was suddenly overcome by a wave of fatigue, the unfortunate result of being twelve hours out of sync with his usual time zone.

With hours before their rendezvous and not much to do in the meantime, Illya let his eyes close and leaned heavily against his partner. He sighed in contentment when he felt Napoleon's arm slip around his shoulders.

He had drifted into a light sleep when the door chimes rang. He sat upright quickly, immediately awake and alert. Napoleon was already standing, his body as taut as a piano wire.

"Expecting company?" Illya asked.

"No. You?"

"No." By mutual, unspoken consent, they had both kept their shoulder holsters on, and now Illya pulled his gun out and chambered a bullet. Napoleon followed suit.

Weapon held steadily in front of him, Illya headed for the gate while Napoleon covered him from inside.

Illya had been half expecting a Thrush death squad to be waiting for him. Which was ridiculous really. Death squads didn't ring door bells. Somehow, he was not at all expecting to find Lau Ming waiting for admittance. The Hong Kong CEA was accompanied by Yam and three other men Illya recognized as Section Three security personnel. Illya didn't know how they had found out where they were staying, but he supposed they must have contacts on the Governor's staff.

Wary, Illya didn't open the gate immediately.

" _Lau sinsaang_ , to what do we owe this pleasure." Illya didn't try to hide his gun. Better that they know he was ready to defend himself.

"Mr. Kuryakin," Lau said, a little uncomfortably, Illya thought. "May we come inside? There is something we must discuss."

Illya paused and considered. This was obviously not a social visit, and he had the definite feeling that neither he nor Napoleon was going to like what Lau had come here for. Still, he had no reason to deny a fellow agent admittance. He really had no choice.

Without a word, he opened the gate and ushered the five men into the grounds.

Napoleon greeted them all at the door of the house and ushered them into the living room. No one made a move to sit down.

"Mr. Lau," Napoleon began, "I assume this is not a social visit?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Solo."

Illya hadn't imagined it. Lau was definitely squeamish about the message he was about to deliver.

"We have received a tip from a contact that either you or Mr. Kuryakin was involved in the assassination of Richard Yuen. And that proof of your guilt can be found on these premises. We wish to search the house and grounds."

"That's ridiculous," Napoleon exploded. Illya felt a coppery taste building in his mouth. They had expected an attack, but not like this.

"We both know that there must be a mole within U.N.C.L.E.'s Hong Kong office." Lau voiced the suspicion that had obviously been a dirty secret in the Hong Kong office since Yuen's death. "There has been a compelling argument made that it is one of you."

Illya intervened before Napoleon lost his temper.

"May I ask from whom the compelling argument' came?"

This time it was Yam who answered.

"From me, Mr. Kuryakin. One of my contacts brought me the information. Under the circumstances, I couldn't ignore it." Yam had the grace to at least appear apologetic.

Illya nodded and turned to his partner.

"We have to let them search, Napoleon."

Napoleon looked on the verge of objecting, but reined in his emotions and gave a curt nod.

"Fine. But we want to accompany you. We won't be framed."

"That's acceptable."

The search was conducted in tense silence. Illya was gratified that the Section Three agents seemed supremely uncomfortable as they performed their assignment. He didn't want to make this at all easy on them.

The search was conducted methodically, starting from the entranceway and moving back through the house. When they came to the bedrooms, Illya was glad that they had placed their luggage in separate rooms, even though they had slept together. No need to antagonize these men further with their sexual preferences.

The search through Napoleon's belongings produced exactly what had been found in the rest of the house: nothing. Then they moved on to the room where Illya had placed his things.

He found he was holding his breath as they went through his luggage, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was suddenly sure that these men would find something, that in spite of regularly searching the grounds, he and Napoleon had missed the signs of someone breaking into the house and planting evidence. And so, he was almost not surprised when one of the men held up a slim silver device.

Lau went over and examined what was clearly an U.N.C.L.E. communicator.

"Mr. Kuryakin, do you have your communicator with you?" Lau asked, a professional iciness entering his voice.

Illya retrieved his communicator from his pocket and wordlessly held it up.

Lau nodded and closely examined the communicator in his hand. Then he activated it.

"Open Channel D. Yim Fong, can you identify whose frequency this communicator is set to?"

"Yes, sir," the head of the communication department answered. "Just give me a moment to check.

There was a brief pause, and then what sounded like a gasp.

"That communicator belonged to Mr. Yuen."

"Thank you, Yim Fong. I need not tell you that this information is to go no further than the two of us."

"Yes, sir," the young woman said quickly, before signing off.

Lau turned back to Illya with an absolutely unreadable look. Illya was sure that it hid the man's hatred.

"Mr. Kuryakin, can you tell me why you have Mr. Yuen's communicator in with your belongings?"

"I'm afraid I've never seen that device before now." Illya fell back on the truth, knowing how unconvincing it must sound.

Lau clearly didn't believe him.

"I am taking you into custody, Mr. Kuryakin. You will be detained at our headquarters until we have investigated this matter fully." He turned to Napoleon. "Mr. Solo, you are not under suspicion, yet, but your involvement will be investigated as well. You are not to have access to the U.N.C.L.E. offices unless accompanied by me or one of my senior agents. And until we have cleared you and your associates, you will not make contact with anyone else within the Command. To that end, may I have your communicator." Lau's final statement was not a question, but a command.

Illya had held off looking at Napoleon until now. Napoleon handed over his communicator with a look that bespoke his fury. Illya spoke before his partner could alienate Lau, a man who could still be their ally, whatever their positions now.

"Napoleon, I'm fine."

"Well, I'm not." Napoleon exploded. "Lau, you must see that this is a frame."

"Have you seen evidence that someone has broken in to this house?" Lau asked.

"No," Napoleon admitted. "But someone must have."

"Until we have proof of his innocence, Mr. Kuryakin will remain in custody."

Illya was afraid that Napoleon was in danger of having himself detained as well. If both of them were locked up, there would be no one to keep the appointment with the mysterious Tiger. And Illya had the feeling that Tiger was the only one who could clear his name.

"Napoleon, don't worry about me. Just find Yuen's killer." Illya hoped that would be enough to remind his partner of his meeting without warning anyone else in this room.

Napoleon immediately understood, and nodded.

"I'll be in to see my partner later today, Lau," Napoleon said, the warning in his voice clear.

Lau simply bowed slightly in response.

As he was bundled out the door, Illya hoped that Tiger, whoever he was, had information on the real identity of Yuen's killer. If not, he had the feeling he was going to regret ever having set foot in Hong Kong.

* * *

Ingrid approached the flat where April and Mark were waiting for her with a large amount of dread. The pistol in the holster under her arm weighed her down, a tangible reminder of what she was about to become: an assassin.

She walked up the stairs to the flat feeling as though her feet were made of lead. She was half hoping that she would not make it to the flat at all, but all too soon she was standing in front of the door, using the assigned series of knocks.

Mark let her in, already dressed in dark clothing that suggested he was planning more than an evening stroll.

"Ingrid, come in." Mark ushered her into the living room. "We were beginning to get worried about you."

"I'm not late, am I?" She was amazed that her voice managed to sound altogether normal.

"No, no," Mark assured her. "We're just anxious."

"And what exactly are you anxious about?" She hated to tip Thrush's hand about anything, but she needed to know what the two agents had planned.

"A spot of burglary. We just need you to keep watch." He began walking toward the flat's lone bedroom. "April, love, are you nearly done?"

April appeared, dressed all in black, her face smudged with cork ash.

"Finished," she said with a flourish. "How do I look?"

"Dressed like the finest cat burglar." Mark headed into the bedroom. "My turn next."

"Hello, Ingrid. Ready to play backup?" April asked, a friendly look on her face.

Ingrid nodded. She no longer trusted her own voice.

"All right." April headed over to the window and peered across the street at the target of their raid. "Let's hope Comrade Makharov cooperates and doesn't choose tonight to come home early.

Ingrid let out a shaky breath as she realized that now was the time. With April distracted and Mark in another room, she could shoot April and take Mark when he came to investigate the shot. It would be easy, if only her hand would stop shaking.

She eased her gun out of its holster and aimed carefully at April. A few pounds of pressure on the trigger and it would be done. Her daughter would be safe. And two U.N.C.L.E. agents would be dead by her hand.

Her hand began to shake in earnest and her world narrowed to the five feet between her and her target.

She was concentrating so hard on April that she didn't hear the footsteps behind her. A gasp was the first indication she had that Mark had returned to the room.

Before she could react, she felt the cold barrel of a gun placed against the back of her head.

"Ingrid, drop the gun." She had never heard Mark Slate's voice sound quite so cold.

Ingrid shook her head.

"I can't," she whispered.

"Ingrid," April turned and held her gaze steadily, "you don't really want to do this."

"You don't understand. I have to." Ingrid gripped the gun harder and tried to still the tremors in her hands. Her face began to feel damp, though she had no idea why. "I'm sorry," she said and steeled herself to pull the trigger.

Instead of the sound of the gun, there was a vicious pain at the back of her head. The gun tumbled from her nerveless fingers and the world disappeared in an explosion of color before everything went black.

She awoke sometime later, lying on the hard wooden floor. Directly in front of her eyes was the Thrush bug her handler had given her. It had been thoroughly crushed.

She closed her eyes tightly, washed by waves of conflicting emotion. She was pitifully grateful that she had not succeeded, that April and Mark were still alive, but devastated that she had failed her daughter again. The girl was dead, or soon would be.

She pushed herself to a sitting position on the floor, steadfastly ignoring the pain and nausea that threatened to overcome her.

She stilled immediately when she heard the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked. Looking up, she found April staring at her intently while Mark had his weapon aimed resolutely in her direction.

"I think you should pull the trigger, _Herr_ Slate." With no emotional resources remaining to her, she resorted to the polite formalities of her youth.

"Don't tempt me." His voice was still utterly chilling.

"Mark," April's voice had warning in it, "play nice." She moved closer even as Mark maintained his position and his aim.

April knelt in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She must have meant the gesture to be comforting, but Ingrid found the small kindness nearly stripped away what little control she had left.

"We need to know why, Ingrid." April's voice was as gentle as Mark's was cold.

"It doesn't matter. I am a traitor. Do what you must."

"You were clearly forced," April continued. "We can help."

"No." Ingrid shook her head. "No one can help. It is too late." She closed her eyes and felt tears begin to leak out the corners, in spite of her best efforts to stop them.

"If you believed that, you wouldn't be an U.N.C.L.E. agent. We're all unrealistic optimists, hadn't you heard?"

Ingrid looked up and saw that April truly believed what she was saying. And maybe the American's conviction gave her the faint hope she needed.

"I was being blackmailed."

"How?" Mark asked.

Ingrid paused. She had told very few other people what she was about to reveal. It was a difficult habit to break.

"Nearly ten years ago, I had a child." She looked down at the floor, unable to maintain eye contact while she revisited this ancient pain. "I was young and inexperienced, as was the father. We were both in U.N.C.L.E. and our careers were just beginning. We both decided it was best if I give the child up for adoption." Her breath caught in her throat. She made what had been a gut-tearing decision sound so easy. "Last week I was approached by a member of Thrush, a woman I had never seen before. She showed me pictures of my child and said that if I did not do as she asked, the girl would be killed. I believed her."

"And she wanted us killed?" The ice in Mark's voice was beginning to melt.

"Not right away. At first she wanted only information. Who we were investigating, what we had found. I was made to carry the bug so that I couldn't lie and they could track my movements.

"You must believe that I tried to tell them as little as possible. I scheduled myself to observe Moore more because I thought there was less possibility that he was a double agent.

"Yesterday, though, I met with my Thrush contact and was given twenty-four hours to kill you both. Or my daughter would be murdered." A catch formed in her throat. "She is probably dead already." The tears she had been holding back suddenly broke and she was powerless to stop them. She shut her eyes as tightly as she could and tried, fruitlessly, to bring her emotions under control.

She felt an arm go around her shoulders. The simple attempt at comfort seemed to work and she was able to slow the tears to a trickle and open her eyes.

"Well?" April aimed the question at her partner.

"It seems plausible," Mark replied.

"I think so too."

April released her shoulders and sat back on her heels. Reaching into her trouser pocket, she pulled out her communicator.

"Open Channel E, scrambled. Mr. Waverly?"

There was a slight delay, and then the voice of U.N.C.L.E.'s _eminent grise_ came over the device.

"Yes, Miss Dancer?"

"We have a situation, sir. Thrush has tried to turn Miss Möller by threatening the daughter she gave up for adoption ten years ago. Everything is under control here, but the girl is still in danger."

There was a harrumph from the other end and a pause before Waverly responded.

"Very well. I'll have one of my people protect the girl immediately."

"I don't know anything about her, except that her family lives in Mainz," Ingrid blurted out.

"Don't worry, Miss Möller, we have records on the family members of all agents."

All three agents paused at that and looked at each other. It really was true that Waverly knew everything.

"Miss Dancer?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you need any further assistance?"

April looked at Mark. He shrugged in response.

"No sir. We're fine for the moment. We're just about to search the flat of one of the suspects. We'll report back in if we find anything."

"Fine, fine. Keep me informed."

And as abruptly as that, he signed off.

Ingrid stared at the two agents.

"Why didn't you tell him everything?" she asked in amazement.

"Because in spite of it all, I still trust you," April said.

"So do I." Mark sounded slightly less confident, but then Ingrid could understand that. She would not think kindly of anyone who tried to kill François, either.

April crossed the room and looked across at Makharov's flat.

"Shall we do this?"

"Yes," Ingrid said, standing up and wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

"Yes," Mark said.

And as simply as that, they were back in business.

* * *

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Napoleon Solo was waiting in the aviary of Kowloon Park, in the heart of Tsim Sha Tsui. The details of how he had gotten to this place were all a blur. He knew he had taken the ferry across the harbor from the Wan Chai docks, but he couldn't for the life of him remember the journey. His thoughts kept straying to the U.N.C.L.E. offices in this damned city, and the lone Russian Enforcement agent imprisoned there. He hoped this Tiger knew the real identity of Yuen's killer. He wasn't sure how he was going to clear his partner otherwise.

He nervously checked his watch every thirty seconds, eager to meet with the man all of U.N.C.L.E. Hong Kong had been searching for since Yuen's death. Just on the hour, a group of Japanese tourists drifted past him, chattering excitedly and snapping pictures of the birds and vegetation. Napoleon shifted impatiently, willing the group to be gone, hoping their presence wouldn't scare off Tiger.

He was not entirely prepared when one of the tourists, an unremarkable man in a black suit, approached him.

"Mr. Solo?"

"Yes?"

"Where is Mr. Kuryakin?"

"He was unavoidably detained," Napoleon said, and wasn't that an understatement. He didn't reveal just how detained Illya had been. "It will just be me."

The man paused for a second and Napoleon was afraid he was going to run. But he merely nodded and then silently directed Napoleon toward a more isolated part of the aviary, set apart from the tourists who drifted through the place.

When the man seemed reluctant to talk right away, Napoleon took the initiative.

"Are you Tiger?" He had been through enough today that the direct approach seemed best.

The man didn't answer at once, but blinked in surprise. After a second, he gave a brittle laugh.

"Yes, that is me. A joke of Richard's. My temperament is not very tiger-like, I'm afraid." The man's English was heavily accented, but fluent.

"Do you have information on Mr. Yuen's death?"

Tiger grew, if possible, more nervous. His eyes darted around, as if checking each shrub and flower for assassins. Only when he seemed satisfied that they were not surrounded, did he answer.

"I witnessed Richard's murder. And recognized his killer."

"Who was it?"

"First, I must have your assurance that I will be protected. I need to leave Hong Kong, go someplace where Thrush can never find me."

"I can assure you, you'll be protected," Napoleon responded. "I'm empowered to speak for Alexander Waverly himself. He will see you're relocated to a safe place."

"Thank you," said Tiger. "I know Mr. Waverly is an honorable man."

"Are you a double agent?" Napoleon asked, that being the most probable reason why an informant would want to hide from Thrush.

"For years. Ever since I realized I wasn't doing the accounting for a simple business. I've been passing on what information I could to Richard since he was a young Enforcement agent. We have maintained our relationship ever since. He said his meetings with me allowed him to pretend he was still in the field, once he was made the station head." The man's voice caught slightly. "And our meeting proved to be his death."

"Who killed him?"

Tiger paused, letting a silence grow between them until Napoleon feared the man had changed his mind about talking to him. But then he gave him a name.

"Yam Kai Fai."

"The Enforcement agent?" Napoleon asked for confirmation.

"Yes," Tiger responded. "You don't seem too surprised."

"He was on a list of possible Thrush moles we obtained. But until now we haven't found proof of his guilt, or any of the others."

"Yam is the only mole in Hong Kong. If you have other suspects, they are meant as distractions. Yam is the true danger."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw him kill Richard myself. At the ferry docks. He stabbed him and then walked away in the confusion. And he saw me there."

"Does he know you?"

"He had seen me at the Thrush satrapy. I don't believe he knew I was Richard's informant until he saw me at the dock."

"So your cover is blown."

"It is why I must run."

Napoleon expelled a deep breath. He knew the identity of Yuen's killer, he had the information needed to clear Illya. All he needed was for Lau to believe Tiger's account.

"We will find you a safe place. But first I need you to come to the U.N.C.L.E. offices and tell Martin Lau what you've told me."

Tiger looked at him in alarm.

"Can you not tell him that?"

"Lau may not exactly, ah, believe me at the moment."

"What?" Tiger's voice had dropped to a whisper.

Napoleon decided he had no choice but to trust this man.

"Evidence has been planted that suggests Mr. Kuryakin was involved in Yuen's murder. I'd guess Yam did it, or had someone do it. Mr. Kuryakin is being detained and I am under suspicion."

Tiger's eyes went wide.

"I'm sorry," was all he said before he turned and tried to slip away.

Having half expected this reaction, Napoleon caught his arm easily and spun him around.

"You have to tell what you know," he insisted, knowing he was fighting for U.N.C.L.E. and justice and Illya's life and everything he held dear. "Without your evidence, Yam will be free."

"I'm not a brave man, Mr. Solo. I can't do this. I'm sorry." Pulling his arm away, he ran and was quickly swallowed up by the crowds of sightseers.

Napoleon let him go.

He knew the identity of Yuen's murderer and he had no proof, nothing to show to Lau. With his communicator gone, he couldn't even contact Waverly. He suspected now that it had been Yam's idea to have his communicator confiscated.

He had one chance and that chance depended on how convincing he could be.

Already laying out a plan of attack, he quickly walked out of the park.

* * *

In the end, April broke into Makharov's flat by herself. Though both she and Mark trusted that Ingrid had changed her mind, they weren't quite willing to risk both their lives on her change of heart. So, Mark acted as both backup and guard while April acted as burglar.

April tried to act very matter-of-fact about everything that had happened in the last half-hour. She tried to pretend it was no big deal that she had nearly been killed by a colleague she had trusted and liked, and nearly succeeded. But just as she was picking the locks on Makharov's door, her hands started shaking uncontrollably. Adrenaline surge, she told herself. Doesn't mean a thing. And still her hands kept trembling. She almost thought she was going to have to give up, to let Mark deal with searching the flat.

She went so far as to pull out her communicator to tell Mark she couldn't do it, when the device sounded itself.

"Dancer," she whispered.

"April," said Mark.

"Mark, what do you want?" She hated the edge of anxiety she could hear in her own voice.

"We haven't seen you enter yet. I just wanted to tell you that you can do it."

She didn't know whether to bless her partner for knowing her better than she knew herself, or to threaten to kick his English butt into next week for risking blowing her entry.

"Of course I can."

"See, I told you," Mark said and signed off.

She put her communicator away and found that the shaking had miraculously disappeared.

The rest of the operation went like clockwork.

Breaking into the flat was childishly easy. Not only had she done it once before, when planting the bugs, but the KGB didn't take the time or expense to install the extra security that was standard on any U.N.C.L.E. agent's flat. And the safe, now that they knew it was there, was easily found in the base of a large and ugly statue in the corner of the bedroom.

The safe contained the jackpot. There were a large number of papers, in English, Russian and German. Almost all contained references to Thrush, and several were lists of names and cities, obviously a list of agents in place in Europe. She didn't have time to photograph everything that the safe contained, and she had a feeling that the papers would contain enough evidence to have Makharov detained immediately, so she grabbed the lot. She made one last inspection of the flat for anything else of interest, finding only that Makharov was a less than fastidious housekeeper, and then left.

It was only her training that kept her from running back to the observation post, though she did give Mark an unprofessional thumbs up as she crossed the street.

Once back at the post, the three of them scanned the papers, Ingrid taking the German documents, April, the Russian and Mark, the English. What they found in the first ten minutes would be enough to hamper Thrush for a long time to come.

There were indeed lists of double agents recruited by Thrush, but also lists of men and women working directly for Thrush. There were the locations of dozens of Thrush satrapies in Western and Eastern Europe and details of several major operations.

And one name came up over and over again: Dr. Egret.

April shuddered as she read about a biological experiment sponsored by the good doctor. The last time she had run into the woman, she had nearly killed Illya with a virus that made the plague look like the common cold.

She looked over at her partner and said one word.

"Egret."

"Egret," Mark nodded in agreement.

Ingrid looked up in confusion.

"That name is all through these documents. Do you know this woman?"

"Let's just say that we're not friends," April said.

"She nearly killed Illya last year," Mark added. "She's ruthless."

Ingrid swallowed before speaking again.

"What does she look like?"

"It's hard to say. She's a chameleon, changes her looks like we change our clothes."

"But in general," Ingrid pressed. "Young or old?"

"I'd say in her forties. Wouldn't you, Mark?"

Her partner nodded.

"Yes, and about five foot ten. And her eyes."

"Her eyes?"

"They're an odd gray color. And they seem cold. However much she changes her face, I doubt she could change her eyes."

Ingrid shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.

"She was the one."

"The one who turned you?"

"Yes. You're right, Mark. She can't change those eyes."

"So, she's in Berlin. We may have her." April was excited by the prospect of putting that evil woman behind bars.

"It's a big city, love. She'd be hard to find."

"And she'll have been warned when my transmitter stopped broadcasting," Ingrid added.

"The transmitter. I'd nearly forgotten," April said.

"I can't forget it," Ingrid said.

"So, she's not in Berlin." Mark quickly changed the subject into a more useful direction. "Where would she have gone?"

They all began shuffling through the sheaves of papers in front of them. One city dominated all the reports.

"Riga," said Ingrid.

"Riga," agreed Mark.

"Riga, it is," said April.

* * *

Lau Ming was not having his best week. His superior had been assassinated, and another Command agent was implicated in the murder. Even before the assassination, he had begun to see signs that there might be a traitor within U.N.C.L.E. And now that he was in charge, he was more certain than ever that one or more employees of U.N.C.L.E. were selling the organization out to Thrush.

But was one of those traitors Illya Kuryakin?

The evidence pointed that way. They had discovered Yuen's communicator in Kuryakin's luggage. But Kuryakin had not been in Hong Kong at the time of Yuen's murder. And if he had been involved, why would he have kept such a damning piece of evidence?

Kuryakin had maintained his innocence since they had taken him into custody. He insisted that the communicator had been planted, but could offer no proof. And he would not give details of why he was in Hong Kong. By now, everyone knew that the courier mission was just a polite fiction, but Kuryakin would say nothing beyond the fact that he and Solo were on a special mission for Alexander Waverly.

Certain members of his staff, especially Yam, had started to suggest that they use more persuasive interrogation techniques on Kuryakin. Lau had refrained from that up till now. He couldn't stomach using truth serums or worse on a man he suspected had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But his excuses were beginning to sound hollow, even to his own ears. He knew he would be forced to use at least a mild truth serum on the Russian, unless he could come up with a credible alternative.

As he was weighing all possible courses of action, he received a call from the reception area.

"Mr. Lau. Mr. Solo has arrived. We were under standing orders not to admit him except in your presence."

"I'll be right down," Lau said impatiently. He didn't have time to deal with Solo now.

When he arrived at the reception area, he found Napoleon Solo waiting impatiently for him.

"Mr. Solo, how can I help you?"

"I need to speak with you right away. In your office."

"I'm sure you'll appreciate that I'm extremely busy at the moment."

"This can't wait."

Looking into the man's eyes, Lau saw that there would be no moving him. "Very well," he said, and led the way.

Once in the office, Solo did the most extraordinary thing. He handed Lau a piece of folded piece of paper. On it was the following message: Traitor in office. Sweep for bugs.'

Lau was so indignant, he nearly threw Solo out. When he calmed down, he realized that Solo was only pointing out something that he had long since suspected himself. And Solo had clearly not made the request lightly. While the New York CEA looked as debonair as he had since he arrived, jet lag notwithstanding, he was now looking frayed around the edges.

As Lau took out the equipment for checking for electronic surveillance, he made small talk with Solo. They talked about the weather, restaurants, the night life in the colony. He hoped that if there was someone else listening, they would find the

 

conversation natural, even though to his own ears it sounded forced and false.

At the end of ten minutes he still had found no sign of a bug. He was nearly about to give up when a shrill beep sounded in the headphones of his equipment. He jumped, and quickly turned down the volume indicator. Solo kept up his description of a Wan Chai bar that Lau was positive Solo had never set foot in and raised in eyebrows in query. Lau nodded, and pointed at the statue that had produced the positive response in the equipment. It was a ceramic likeness of General Kwan Ti, Taoist god of War, stroking his beard and wielding a lance. Lau didn't usually own such things  he had joined the Church of England while attending a British boarding school and never visited the various temples in the city  but it had been a gift. From Yam Kai Fai.

He quietly set down the equipment. And lifted up the statue. Poking around in the hole at the statue's base, he found a small metal button. A bug.

He held the small device up for Solo to see. The New York agent gave him a grim look of satisfaction.

The next question was, what to do with the thing? Destroy it, and its owner would know it had been discovered. Leave it, and they could not discuss anything in this room.

Lau put the bug down and crossed the room to his desk. Keeping up their patter, he wrote a note to Solo.

"Know secure location outside building. Adjourn there?"

Solo nodded and the two men left.

Lau took them to a small, crowded bar in Central, one favored by low level executives and the women who pursued them. He usually avoided the place because even this early in the evening it was so noisy you couldn't hear yourself think. Which meant that anyone trying to overhear their conversation was doomed to failure.

They sat in a small, corner booth. Once they had received their drinks from the waiter  ginger ale for both of them  Solo began to talk.

"I've just found Yuen's informant, Tiger. He's a low level Thrush bureaucrat who has been supplying Yuen with information for years. He witnessed Yuen's murder."

Solo paused, and gave him an appraising look.

"What are you waiting for, Mr. Solo?"

"I'm trying to decide if you really want to hear what I have to tell you."

"I assure you I do."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what," Lau repeated. He felt a cold knot settle at the base of his spine. He wasn't stupid. He was reasonably sure that he knew what Solo was going to tell him. But that didn't make it any easier to hear.

"Very well," Solo said. "Tiger has told me that Yuen's assassin was Yam Kai Fai."

Lau nodded and said nothing.

"You don't look surprised," Solo commented.

"Let's just say that I've begun to have suspicions myself. I wondered how Yam would know to search your belongings. In fact, he was the one who found out where you were staying. He told me he had contacts at the Governor's office, but now I wonder if he didn't have the assistance of a small bird. And the statue in my office was a gift from him."

"I see." Solo looked taken aback.

"You do seem surprised."

"I was anticipating more of an argument."

"I haven't gotten to my position by being blind, Mr. Solo. I suspect the same can be said of you."

Solo gave him a quick grin.

"So, now that we both know who the bad guy is, what are we going to do about it?"

"You Americans are so blunt."

"It's part of our charm."

"I suppose you could call it that."

"Back to business, I don't suppose breaking Illya out would be the smartest thing we could do?"

"I don't think so. It would likely warn Yam."

"I was afraid you'd say that. I just don't like leaving him locked up."

Lau did indeed understand. He'd had one too many

 

experiences of having his own partner behind bars in his career.

"Would it make you feel better if I asked my partner to take over the guard duty until we have solved our Thrush problem?"

"Yes, as long as it isn't Will Andrews."

"Andrews is under suspicion as well?"

"And Victoria Chan. Though I have no evidence that either of them is involved."

"Damn," Lau said softly, before shaking his head. They would deal with all of this in time. "No, my partner's name is Michael Shaw. He's been investigating a possible smuggling operation on Lantau Island for the last week. He can be back here in three hours."

"That would be fine."

"Good. Now let's see what we can do about our other little problem."

They settled in to make their plans.

* * *

From the time he had heard from Dancer and Slate in Berlin, Alexander Waverly had been waiting in his office, not so patiently, for them report the results of the raid on Makharov's apartment.

It was several hours later, and the sun had long since set behind the Manhattan skyline, when he finally received their call.

"Waverly."

"Mr. Waverly," April Dancer said, "we've broken into Makharov's flat."

"And have been successful, I trust."

"We think so. Makharov had a number of documents stored in a safe in his bedroom. The documents seem to contain the details of the Thrush conspiracy, with the names and locations of many of the double agents. The documents also contain the name of the person who seems to be controlling the conspiracy."

"And that is?"

"Dr. Egret."

Waverly wished he could have said he was surprised, but the truth was that he had suspected Egret's involvement all along. Perhaps this time they could eliminate her completely.

"Do you know where she is presently located?"

"We suspect she has been in Berlin, but all the documents suggest that her headquarters are in Riga."

"Do you know exactly where?"

"No," April said hesitantly. "There are numerous references to the Old City, but no exact location.

"Very well. The three of you are to proceed to Riga immediately."

"Well, sir," Dancer said hesitating.

"Spit it out, young lady," Waverly ordered when she went no further.

"I think that Mark and I should travel to Riga on our own. I believe Miss Möller should remain in Berlin, under the supervision of her partner, François Auteuil."

"I had heard Mr. Auteuil had been injured."

"Yes, sir."

Waverly thought for a moment. He knew, when Miss Dancer had reported that Thrush had tried to turn Miss Möller that there was more to the story than he was being told. Now he wondered just how much they were keeping from him. Still, he trusted his agents to act for the best and sometimes it wasn't necessary that he know absolutely everything.

"Fine, Miss Dancer. Miss Möller is to stay in Berlin with Mr. Auteuil. But I expect a full report on the completion of your mission."

"And what exactly is our mission, sir?" Mark Slate asked.

"Find Dr. Egret's center of operations and eliminate it and her in whatever way you think best. Is that clear?"

"As crystal, sir."

"Good. Now off with you. I'll arrange to have someone pick up our Mr. Makharov so he can't cause any mischief from Berlin. And I shouldn't have to tell you to be careful. Not only will you have Thrush to contend with, but the Soviet authorities as well. They're none too fond of U.N.C.L.E. at the moment.

"I'll maintain radio silence for now. I don't want to cause you problems with an ill-timed message. Report in when you can."

"Yes sir."

"That's all," he said and then signed off.

At least Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate seemed to have matters well in hand in Berlin. He hoped the same could be said of Solo and Kuryakin in Hong Kong.

* * *

####  _Tuesday, April 19, 1966_

Yam Kai Fai couldn't believe his luck. He was one person away from being made the station head of the U.N.C.L.E. Hong Kong office. He had eliminated Richard Yuen and thrown suspicion on Kuryakin and Solo. And now the last person standing in his way, Lau Ming himself, had invited him out for a drink. To discuss security issues. Privately.

He couldn't have been given a more perfect set up if he'd planned it himself. He fingered the small vial of poison in his pocket and thought about when he should place it in Lau's drink. Not right away. He would listen to the man for perhaps an hour first. Put him at his ease, encourage him to get slightly drunk. Only then would he strike.

He walked down Lockhart Road, searching for the pub that Lau had chosen for their meeting.

The Old China Hand was not a place that he would have expected Lau to even know about. It was a seedy establishment, and even at noon was becoming full. The crowd was a mixture of young tourists, local residents and hard core drinkers, some of whom had clearly been in the bar since the night before. Yam found Lau already established in a corner table near the back of the room. The table's formica top was chipped and stained, the chairs around it mismatched.

" _Neih hou ma, Lau sinsaang_ ,"

"Good afternoon, _Ah Fai_. Please sit down." Lau waved over the waiter. "Can I buy you a drink?" He indicated his own glass. "I'm having a Tsing Tao myself."

"That would be fine."

While Lau made the order, Yam took the opportunity to observe his CEA. Lau looked like he hadn't slept well in days. This was going to be too easy.

Yam bided his time, drinking his beer, content to make small talk for the moment. He needed to know how much Lau knew before he eliminated him. And how much he might have told others. So, he regaled Lau with tales of expeditions to the Happy Valley track and gossiped about the newest members of the U.N.C.L.E. secretary pool. He nearly grinned in triumph as the usually moderate Lau consumed two more glasses of beer, and his speech began to get a little sloppy. Yam ordered only one more beer, and nursed it carefully.

Finally, after nearly an hour, Lau came to the point.

"I told you I have some concerns about the office," Lau said, his face flushed bright red.

"Yes," Yam said in measured tones.

"I believe that there might be a traitor. That Yuen was killed by someone from within U.N.C.L.E."

"Kuryakin?" Yam pushed the suspect of his own creation to the front.

"Perhaps. But someone else as well, from Hong Kong."

"Have you told anyone else? Your partner?"

"Not yet. I'm not sure who else I can trust. But I have no doubts about your loyalty."

Yam wanted to laugh out loud at the man's idiocy, but restrained himself.

"Thank you, _Ah Ming_. Have you any evidence?"

"Yes. It's in the safe in my office."

That would be Yam's first visit, after the death of this fool. He would destroy the evidence and clear the path for his own installation as station head.

"All of it?" he pushed.

"Yes," Lau replied with a frown of concentration. He was clearly becoming rather drunk.

"Good," Yam said. He had wasted enough time. He palmed the vial of poison and waited for an opportunity to slip it into Lau drink. The fool would be dead in minutes.

As he watched Lau finish the dregs of his beer, Yam felt his own face flush. He put it down to the closed atmosphere of the bar. The days were beginning to get hotter, and the rickety air conditioning in the bar could barely handle the heat.

"Are you all right?" he heard Lau ask. The question seemed to come from across the room, not across the table.

"Just hot," he slurred, becoming alarmed. He hadn't consumed that much alcohol. He couldn't be this drunk.

Lau, on the other hand, seemed to be sobering up. He waved over the waiter.

"My friend isn't feeling well. Is there a back room we can use?"

Yam tried to protest, to get away, but was betrayed by muscles that would no longer obey his command.

Instead, he was helped to his feet by Lau and the waiter and taken to a windowless room in the back of the bar. The only furniture was a rickety desk with a chair on either side of it. A bare light bulb lit the room.

Yam was deposited in one of the chairs, his mind racing even as he found he could not control his body. He knew what had happened; he had been drugged with one of the newer truth serums in the U.N.C.L.E. arsenal. Somehow, he had been found out. In spite of how careful he'd been, Lau had found out that he was responsible for Yuen's death.

He struggled to gain control, to find the strength not to answer the questions that would inevitably follow. Thrush tolerated betrayal even less than the Command. If he informed on his masters, he would not to live out the week, no matter where they put him. He had to stay silent.

Lau stood facing him, behind the desk. He could hear another man moving around behind him, but he couldn't turn his head to see who it was.

Then, Napoleon Solo sat at the desk across from him.

That was when Yam Kai Fai knew that he had no chance. He might not have a high opinion of his own CEA, but he knew that Solo was the best there was. He would not leave this room until he had given these men every secret he had kept and a few he did not even know he had.

He was a dead man.

Solo looked at him with a smile that held absolutely no warmth.

"Shall we begin?" Solo asked.

* * *

It was nearly dawn when Alexander Waverly's communicator gave its telltale beep. It did not find him asleep. It had been days since he had caught more than a few hours rest each night.

"Waverly," he answered.

"Solo, sir. Can you speak?"

"Go ahead Mr. Solo."

"We've found the traitor in Hong Kong. It was a senior Enforcement agent, Yam Kai Fai. He assassinated Yuen and was working on Illya and Martin Lau."

"I trust you've foiled his plans."

"Yes, sir. We've just spent the last two hours interrogating him. We believe he told us everything."

"The new truth drugs are rather effective, are they not, Mr. Solo?"

"I'll say. I'm sending the complete transcripts of the interrogation on to New York. Would you like the high points?"

"If you please."

"Yam had been working for Thrush for years, though he's just gone active recently. He confirmed that he was working alone in Hong Kong. Looks like our other two suspects were decoys."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"So am I. One rotten apple is enough. He did, however, give the names of the Thrush moles in place throughout Asia. And he's confirmed that Egret is in charge of the new push to infiltrate intelligence organizations. As an added bonus, she appears to have provided special incentive to any of their operatives who can kill or capture either Illya or myself. Or any of our known associates."

"Does he know where her headquarters are?"

"Yeah, and you'll have to let Vassili know. She's running everything out of Riga. She's set up a center of operations in the crypt of the main cathedral. No wonder Antonenko insisted he run."

Waverly stopped then, clenching his jaw tight in apprehension.

"Are you certain, Mr. Solo? Absolutely certain?"

"Yes, sir. Yam was very clear on the point. She has been spotted in Berlin and Frankfurt, but she's amassed most of her forces in Riga."

"And you said she was keen on dealing with associates of you and Mr. Kuryakin?"

There was a pause as Solo no doubt put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"April and Mark are still in Berlin, aren't they?"

"No they are not. They cleared things up in Berlin yesterday and have moved on to..."

"Riga," Solo completed.

"Riga," Waverly agreed.

"You have to get them help. They're probably walking right into a trap."

"I agree, Mr. Solo. You and Mr. Kuryakin are to move on to Riga immediately."

"That's not enough. Even if we leave now and make all our connections, it will be over twenty-four hours before we arrive."

"Then you have no time to waste, Mr. Solo. In the meantime, I will attempt to find other support for them, but since the Soviet has annulled its membership in the Command, we have no agents in the Baltic states. And there are no agents left in Europe that I trust completely at the moment. Not until we finish cleaning house."

"Okay." There was a rustling of fabric that was no doubt Solo throwing on his jacket. "If you're talking to April and Mark, tell them we're on the way."

"Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate are operating under radio silence, but I will inform them if they call in."

"Damn," Solo whispered, just loudly enough to be heard. "Okay, I'm just going to go and spring Illya."

"Spring' Mr. Kuryakin from what?"

"It's a long story. You can read it in the report."

"Fine Mr. Solo."

With a click and no fanfare, Solo signed off.

"God speed," Waverly said to the empty room.

He sat for a moment, taking everything in. It seemed they were getting closer to victory, but there was still so much possibility for defeat. It was time to stack the deck a little in their favor.

He reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory. He wasn't surprised when it took nearly ten rings for the phone to be picked up. After all, it was two o'clock in the morning.

" _Alloh, eta Rodchenko_."

"Mr. Rodchenko, I trust I did not wake you."

"Mr. Waverly. No. I was reading." Waverly smiled at the man's lie.

"Good. Because I think I have a job for you. Can you be in the office in an hour?"

"Sooner, I think. I can have Miles Bronowski drive me in. The man never seems to sleep."

"I will meet you at reception. Events have progressed to the point where I do not think we need to hide your presence."

"May I ask what I will be doing?"

"I'm sending you back to where all this began."

"Riga?"

" _Da, tovarisch_ Rodchenko."

" _Spasiba_ , Mr. Waverly."

"You can thank me when it's all over, Mr. Rodchenko." He hung up without further niceties and began making further plans.

* * *

Mark awoke with a splitting headache and a cramp in his neck. He shifted, to relieve the latter and found that made his head pound even more. A distinctly non-stoic groan left his lips.

He heard a shuffling and then a hand was laid on his forehead. Opening his eyes, he found his partner looking down at him, not terribly well-hidden concern filling her eyes.

"How do you feel?"

"Like someone dropped a piano on my head. How do you think?"

"Well, it wasn't quite a piano..."

He gave his partner a sour look and closed his eyes for a second, fighting down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

When his head stopped spinning, he opened his eyes again and looked around the room where they found themselves. He felt like he'd been tossed into a bad movie set. The room was made from large stone blocks and had the feeling of being underground. An ancient wooden door barred the only entrance. He was laying on a portable cot. Two worn wooden chairs were the only other furniture in the room.

He frowned.

"How did we get here?"

"The usual way. Four big gorillas with mayhem on their minds grabbed us outside Erika's. They knocked you out and chloroformed me." She checked her watch. "I woke up about twenty minutes ago."

Mark tried to remember their capture. It was a big black hole in his memory. He tried further back. He remembered landing in Latvia, courtesy of one of Illya's smuggler friends, Andris Cirulis. He remembered walking through the Old City of Riga. But that was all.

"Mark, are you okay?" April's question brought him back to the present.

"I don't remember," he said, hoping he didn't sound as lost as he felt.

"What don't you remember?"

"Getting captured. Or anything leading up to it. And who is Erika?"

April's expression changed from concern to very definite worry.

"Erika is the woman who we were staying with. She was a member of U.N.C.L.E.'s Baltic network, before it was disbanded last year. Do you remember Andris giving us an address to go to?"

"I remember that, but I don't remember actually going there." Mark bit his lip. "How much time have I lost?"

"About nine hours, I'd say."

"So it took," he paused as he did the calculations, "ten hours for us to get captured?"

April nodded.

"Christ, that must be a new record."

April gave a short laugh.

"You can't be that badly hurt if you're making jokes about it."

"Don't so sure of that." Mark sat up with a groan. "I feel like someone's been using my head as an anvil."

"You have a head injury, you prat." April pushed him back down. "Take it easy. Are you seeing double?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Nausea?"

"A bit," he admitted.

"Then you're not moving until you start feeling better." She reached down and came up with a glass of water. "Have a drink."

"Thanks, love," Mark said. He drank deeply, enjoying the feeling of the water on his parched throat, then let himself sink deeper into the lumpy pillow on the cot.

April sat in one of the chairs. They waited in silence, Mark wondering when their hosts were going to make an appearance.

Two hours later, Mark was beginning to feel more human. The nausea had nearly disappeared and his headache was beginning to fade. He and April occupied their time by talking about the latest movies and playing Botticelli. Illya and Napoleon had taught them the game, telling them it would serve them well in their career. Mark had thought they were joking at the time.

They did not discuss their assignment, assuming that the room was bugged.

April was in the middle of describing a Fellini film she had seen in the Village when the door to their prison creaked open.

Mark could see April's muscles stiffen in anticipation, and he could feel his own doing the same.

A woman entered the room, holding a pistol held firmly in front of her. Though the woman's features were unfamiliar, there was no mistaking her bearing.

"Dr. Egret, I presume," Mark said.

"I'm flattered you recognize my new face, Mr. Slate."

"You shouldn't be."

Egret chose to ignore his remark. She simply looked at the two of them with a slight but triumphant smile.

"What do you want?" April finally asked.

"From you two? Absolutely nothing. You are merely the means to a rather satisfying end."

"What end is that?" Mark asked.

"Illya and Napoleon." April said. "That's it, isn't it? You're after Illya and Napoleon."

"You should pay attention to your partner, Mr. Slate. She's quite intelligent."

"That's what all of this has been about? Killing them?"

Egret actually laughed.

"If by all of this' you mean events in Berlin and elsewhere, then no. Even I would not go so far to kill my enemies. Eliminating Kuryakin and Solo is merely a delicious side benefit of our ultimate goal. But it is a side benefit that you two will facilitate."

"What do you expect us to do?" April asked.

"As I told you, absolutely nothing, my dear. I'm hoping that your imprisonment will be enough to encourage the attendance of your friends."

Egret gave them a final onceover, and then swept out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Seems we're to be the goats staked out for the tigers," Mark said.

"I just hope our two tigers are smarter than the hunter."

* * *

####  _Wednesday, April 20, 1966_

Napoleon stood on the deck of Andris Cirulis' fishing trawler and stared off into the distance. It was an hour before dawn and the beaches of Jurmula were an indistinct smudge on the horizon.

They were looking for a light from shore that would signify that Andris' contact was waiting to receive them. In the meantime, the Latvian smuggler was glowering at both him and his partner.

He could hear Andris growling under his breath in Russian, damning Napoleon and his partner for being idealistic fools.

"We're not fools, Andris."

Andris jerked in response, having clearly forgotten that Napoleon knew Russian. But his surprise was quickly replaced by disgust. He switched to English.

"You are both fools. Or have you forgotten what happened to you the last time you were in this country?"

"I remember," Napoleon said. It would have been difficult to forget. The last time they had been in Latvia, the KGB had nearly captured Illya. Andris had smuggled them out of the country, but not before Napoleon had feared Illya was dead. It had not been the best of times.

"And yet you still want to go back." Andris shook his head, and looked pointedly at Illya, in the bow of the trawler. "Him, I can understand. There's not a Russian born who can resist a hopeless cause. But I thought Americans were supposed to have more common sense."

"We have no choice."

"You always have a choice."

"Our friends are in danger. Would you have us abandon them?"

Napoleon had him there, and he knew it. However much Andris Cirulis might pretend to be a pragmatist, he was also unfailingly loyal. Andris glared at him but made no response. And now, while he was speechless, might be the time to distract him further.

"Why do they let you get this close to shore?"

"Don't change the subject, Napoleon."

"No, really. I'm curious."

Andris let the silence stretch out between them for a long time before answering. Eventually, though, he gave in to the inevitable.

"I bribe the coastal patrol," he admitted. "The Soviet forces don't pay enough that their men are immune to the lure of foreign currency."

"So much for the Communist ideal."

"Ideals are for those who can afford them."

Napoleon couldn't argue with that.

At last a light shone from the shore in the agreed upon pattern. Illya moved back to their position.

"He's there," the Russian said.

"I saw," Napoleon replied. "Time for us to go, Andris."

"Go on, the pair of you." He grabbed Napoleon's hand and shook it briefly. "My contact will be waiting on the beach for you every night at 3 a.m."

Andris turned to Illya and gave his friend a fierce bear hug.

"And you, you stubborn Russian, try not to get yourself killed."

"I won't, Andris."

Their good-byes said, the two of them climbed into the trawler's rowboat with Andris' first mate. With luck, they would rendezvous with the Latvian in a day or two, their mission successfully completed.

Napoleon refused to even consider the alternative.

* * *

Napoleon strode through the Old Town of Riga, feeling like he had been transported back in time. Medieval buildings lined the narrow, twisting cobblestone streets. Only the people in the streets and the occasional bombsite left over from the war indicated that he had not been thrown back four hundred years.

Illya and Vassili Rodchenko walked several paces ahead of him, talking quietly in Russian. He let the two of them exchange information. He concentrated on making sure they were not being followed.

They had met Vassili at the Laima tower clock at noon. The clock was a common meeting place, so they had attracted no attention while waiting for their rendezvous with the Soviet agent. And they'd had to wait only a few minutes before Vassili had arrived, looking slightly harried.

They were on their way to the flat of Erika Zale. Zale had been a member of U.N.C.L.E.'s Baltic network last year, before the tides within the Soviet Union had turned against the Command. She had been missed in the sweep that had resulted in the imprisonment of so many of the other agents. Waverly had offered to have her smuggled out of the country, but she had chosen to stay in her homeland, assisting the organization when she could.

She had offered her home to April and Mark while they were working in Riga. Zale had been the last person to see the two younger agents, and they were on their way now to question her.

Zale's flat was on the second floor of a house on Richard Wagnera Iela. They climbed the narrow winding stairs and then Illya knocked on the door. He was surprised when a tiny woman in her fifties answered the door.

" _Ko tu gribi?_ " she said. What do you want.

" _Kundze_ Zale. It's Illya Kuryakin."

"Illya!" she said, and pulled them all in from the hallway. She shut the door and locked it behind her.

She began speaking excitedly in Latvian. Illya held up his hand.

"Do you mind if we switch to Russian?" he asked in that language. "My friends don't speak Latvian."

"And who are your friends?"

"Napoleon Solo, my partner from America. And Vassili Rodchenko."

Zale shook both their hands, though she looked at Vassili a little uncertainly.

"We're here looking for April Dancer and Mark Slate," Illya explained.

"Such nice young people," Zale said. "I was glad to put them up."

"When did they arrive?"

"Late Monday night."

"And when did you last see them?"

"Tuesday afternoon. They said they were going out to ask some questions. They never came back."

"You didn't see anything suspicious?"

"No. They just left and never returned."

"Could we see their things?" Napoleon asked.

"Certainly." Zale led them to two rooms off the main hall. Napoleon searched April's room while Illya and Vassili took Mark's.

"Anything?"

"Nothing," Illya said. "You?"

Napoleon shook his head.

They were standing in the corridor, trying to decide on their next course of action when there was a knock on the door. Zale answered it while her three guests remained out of sight in the kitchen. She reappeared after a minute with an envelope held in her hand.

"Illya, it is addressed to you and Mr. Solo."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows as Illya took the envelope.

"Who delivered it?"

"A young boy. I doubt he knew anything."

Illya slit open the envelope and took out a sheet of note paper. It contained a single sentence, written in English, in a neat, formal script.

"If you want to see your two young friends again, come to the Riga Dom tonight at eight o'clock, after the service," Illya read out loud.

The letter wasn't signed, but they all knew from whom it had come.

"It seems we're being invited to a trap," Napoleon said.

"Yes," said Illya. "But who will be caught in it? Us or our host?"

That was the crucial question.

With Erika's permission, they sat at her dining room table and began to draw up their plans.

* * *

Vassili Rodchenko adjusted the straps of his backpack and then checked that the magazine of his gun was loaded and the safety was on. When he was certain he was absolutely prepared, he hunkered down to wait.

He was crouched in an alcove built into the bank of the Daugava River, hidden from all but the most curious boater. The Daugava ran through Riga, and at this point its course took it just behind the Old Town of the city. The tunnel that led from the alcove led directly to the crypt of the Riga Dom, courtesy of some long-forgotten bishop who had no doubt wanted to secure his own escape route.

Vassili found out about the tunnel when he had been checking a few of his own sources, before Illya and Napoleon had arrived. If they were lucky, Egret had assumed they did not know about the tunnel. If they were extremely lucky, Egret had not found the tunnel at all.

He checked his watch, wishing they did not have to cut the timing so close on this operation, especially when the lives of his friends were depending on it.

When his timepiece showed five minutes before eight, he acted.

He blew the hinges off the door with small charges, hoping that there was no alarm on the door. He entered cautiously, but no phalanx of Thrush guards awaited him. He then began moving through the tunnel and into the crypt complex.

He navigated mostly by instinct. The man who had told him the location of the tunnel hadn't been able to give more than a general indication of where it led. Every time he came to a fork in the tunnel, he had to guess as to what way to proceed.

He encountered only one Thrush on the way. He surprised the man and he rounded a corner, and killed him with his silenced pistol. He disposed of the body in what looked like a little used storeroom, after liberating the man's uniform.

Turning a final corner, he found what must be the room where April and Mark were being held. Two Thrush with assault rifles stood in front of a large wooden door, barred with a battered looking crossbeam.

Ducking quickly out of sight before the guards caught sight of him, Vassili considered his options. He had to eliminate the two men before they could alert anyone else. He shucked off his knapsack and placed his pistol in his pocket, the safety off. He hoped that the blood on the Thrush uniform he was wearing wasn't too obvious.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the corridor with the two men, and began to move toward them. He smiled in greeting as he got closer. They nodded an acknowledgment, but one of them began to frown as he drew nearer. It was the last thing he ever did.

Vassili drew his side arm as quickly as he could and shot both men before either could draw his weapon. They both slid down the wall, their guns striking the floor with a clatter.

Wasting no time, Vassili searched them both for the key to the door they were guarding. It was easy enough to find, a large, antique affair of cast metal.

He opened the door a crack and then called through the opening.

"April? Mark?"

There was a pause, before April answered.

"Vassili, is that you?"

He pushed the door open further to find both the young U.N.C.L.E. agents poised to fight. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but Slate was looking paler than usual and a little unsteady on his feet.

" _Da_ , it's me."

He dragged both the dead Thrush into the room, then went to retrieve his knapsack from down the hall.

"What are you doing here?" Mark asked, when he returned.

"Rescuing you two," Vassili said, placing the knapsack on the floor.

"Where are Illya and Napoleon?"

Vassili nodded at the two Thrush. "Get their uniforms on, and I'll tell you." He began pulling equipment out of his knapsack. "We don't have much time."

To their credit, April and Mark asked no more questions but began to follow his orders. When they were ready, he told them the plan.

* * *

Just before eight o'clock, Illya and Napoleon walked across the plaza of the Dom cathedral in Riga's Old Town.

Illya tried to calm the hammering of his heart as they neared the entrance of the church, but it was difficult. So much depended on their actions in the next few minutes. They must save their own lives and those of April, Mark and Vassili. And they had to defend all the innocents who would suffer if Thrush were to succeed in this plot.

It wasn't that he hadn't faced similar danger before, but somehow this time was different. He hated to admit it, but the thought of facing Dr. Egret again was causing him some trepidation. Less than a year ago, she had nearly managed to kill him with a virus of her own design. Though he had fully recovered months ago, he could still remember the helplessness he had felt, sure that he was not only going to die, but would be used to infect his friends and colleagues. It had been a dark time, and his return to health had been hard won.

Of course, his recovery had not been accomplished alone. The man at his side had been there through it all with him, on good days and bad. Napoleon had been there from the beginning when he could barely raise his head and to the endless rounds of physiotherapy that had returned him to operational fitness.

He looked hard at Napoleon as they reached the threshold of the Dom, wishing he could take him in a hard embrace, tell him how much he was loved, how much his strength was needed. Then Napoleon returned his look and Illya could see all of his feelings reflected back at him. The knowledge of the link between the two of him made him catch his breath, and gave him the will to face all his demons and the good doctor too.

"Ready?" Napoleon asked.

"Let's go," Illya replied.

They entered the Dom and Illya was immediately struck by the difference between the evening sun of the plaza and the gloom inside the structure. He blinked while his eyes became accustomed to the dark interior.

No Thrush awaited them inside, as he had half expected. In fact the church was nearly deserted, the only people visible were several older women saying solitary prayers near the main altar.

They made their way down one side of the building and found the stairs leading down to the crypt. After checking that they weren't being observed, they both unholstered their guns before proceeding. Illya had no doubt that they would be outnumbered once they reached the crypt, but he would not give up without a fight.

As they descended the stairs, they began to lose even the dim light that suffused the Dom. Halfway down, Illya pulled the small pen light from his pocket, and illuminated their path with it's tenuous light.

At the bottom of the stairs there was nothing but a large wooden door. They paused as they considered its bulk. Illya's hand tightened on his gun and he felt a burst of adrenaline explode in his bloodstream. Now he felt not trepidation but anticipation. He was suffused with an irrational confidence that they would succeed.

Without a word, he and Napoleon applied their shoulders to the massive door and pushed it open.

On the other side, they were greeted by a blast of light. Illya squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden assault on his eyes. After a few long seconds he was able to distinguish his surroundings. He and Napoleon were surrounded by six men brandishing distinctive Thrush rifles. Behind the men, in the center of the room, stood a woman in a lab coat.

"Welcome, gentlemen. We've been expecting you."

"Dr. Egret," he said, keeping his voice civil only with great difficulty. His palm grew slick on the grip of his gun. He wanted nothing so much as to shoot her down in cold blood, to prevent her from harming others as she had him last year, as she was no doubt planning on doing to April and Mark. Only the knowledge that he would outlive her by mere seconds kept him from pulling the trigger.

"Mr. Kuryakin, how nice to see you. I trust you're well."

"No thanks to you."

"More's the pity," she said. "Get their guns," she directed her men.

Illya was relieved of his weapon at the same time that Napoleon lost his. Then they were both directed at gunpoint through an archway and into a much larger room.

Illya looked with interest around the chamber. It seemed to be the control center of the complex. A large main frame computer dominated one wall, while another was completely taken up by filing cabinets.

Egret followed them into the room.

"I never thought it would be so easy to capture the great Napoleon Solo," she said mockingly. "If we'd known you were so attached to your friends that you would throw your life away for them, you would have caused Thrush much less grief over the years."

Napoleon gave a careless shrug.

"You've discovered my secret."

"I wonder which of you I should kill first, you or Mr. Kuryakin. Or perhaps your young friends, Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer."

Illya concentrated on betraying no emotion. He surreptitiously checked his watch, hoping they would not have to maintain their façade for much longer. One minute to go.

Illya gave Napoleon their prearranged signal and they began edging apart, moving closer to the guards holding the guns. Illya concentrated on maintaining a countdown in his head. He was conscious of Egret's continuing taunts, but he had completely lost track of what she was saying. He was only peripherally aware of her frustration at their lack of reaction.

As he reached the end of his internal countdown, he braced himself. He saw Napoleon do the same.

When the explosions came, they were the only two who weren't thrown to the ground. Illya acted quickly. They would not have the advantage for long.

Both he and Napoleon dove for the guns of the two Thrush nearest them. Illya managed to knock the one man unconscious, but was forced to shoot the two others. He heard the report of Napoleon's gun and saw two of his assailants fall. Illya took out the third, just as the man was taking aim at Napoleon's back.

"Thanks," said Napoleon.

"Don't mention it," said Illya.

They turned their attention back to Egret. The woman was looking at the two of them with unabated loathing.

Napoleon ignored the virulence of her stare and grabbed her by the wrist as Illya retrieved their own weapons and ammunition.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but you'll be coming with us."

She tried to pull away from his grip, but Napoleon held her as easily as if she was a child. Illya might have pitied her, if he hadn't had such absolute antipathy for her.

They moved into the antechamber where they had first entered the crypt, weapons at the ready, prepared for the assault that they were convinced must be coming their way.

They didn't have long to wait.

A new wave of Thrush soldiers rushed their position. Fortunately the men were disoriented, unsure of what had become of their leader and where the attack was coming from. Illya and Napoleon killed or wounded the majority of them. The rest surrendered, as Egret yowled in frustration.

Illya herded their prisoners into a corner of the room as Napoleon tried to get Egret under control. The woman fought him as if possessed, lashing out at him with one hand, and drawing blood as she raked his face with her scarlet painted nails. Napoleon released her other hand as he caught at his face in pain.

At just that moment, a group of newcomers entered the main chamber. Illya poised, fully expecting another assault. Instead, he beheld the welcome sight of Vassili, April and Mark leading another group of prisoners into the chamber.

His relief was short lived as he realized that Egret had taken advantage of the confusion and had darted back into the depths of the complex.

"Egret's getting away," he shouted at Napoleon.

"Let her go," his partner said with typical pragmatism.

"No," he snarled. "She always finds a way out. She escapes and more people die." He ran after the retreating woman.

"Illya," his partner yelled after him. He ignored Napoleon's shouts and sped up, hoping that he did not run into any more pockets of resisting Thrush agents.

He pelted through the chambers of the crypt, catching the occasional glimpse of his quarry as she ran ahead of him.

He caught up with her in a dead end, caught by her own labyrinth. Her eyes darted about in panic for a few moments as she tried to find some means of escape. When that proved fruitless, she seemed to relax. She raised her arms in the universal sign of surrender.

"Mr. Kuryakin, it seems I'm to be a guest of your organization again." She nearly leered as she spoke. "I hope your Mr. Waverly will be as accommodating a host as he was last time."

Illya eyes narrowed as he looked at Egret.

He thought about what would happen if he took Egret into custody. She would no doubt escape again. She would plan the deaths of more people, both experienced agents who had accepted the risks and innocents who had no idea of the danger they were in. She would cause pain and grief and destruction.

There was really only one thing to do.

At the last second he saw the realization that she was facing her death grow in Egret's eyes, only to be replaced by anger. Her face twisted into an ugly mask.

"No," she said with a finality and launched herself at him.

For a moment, Illya was frozen by the ferocity of her attack, by the palpable hatred directed at him. But only for a moment. He broke his paralysis and pulled the trigger. His gun barked once, twice, three times. Three flowers of blood bloomed on her lab coat. She remained standing for a few seconds longer, her face locked in a rictus of malevolence. Then the strength fled from her limbs and she collapsed on the floor. Her eyes had changed to the glassy vacancy of death within seconds.

Illya crouched by the body of the woman who had done so much evil and tried to feel something. Triumph, relief, guilt, even disgust. Instead, there was only a hard emptiness at his core.

He felt a touch on his shoulder.

"Is she dead?" Napoleon asked.

Unable to speak, Illya nodded.

"I suppose you had no choice."

"No," Illya agreed. "I had no choice at all."

* * *

Nothing had quite disturbed Napoleon so much during this whole assignment as finding Illya hunched over Dr. Egret's body deep within the crypt complex.

He wasn't unhappy to see the doctor dead, but the manner of her death chilled him. She had been unarmed and would have been no match for Illya in hand-to-hand combat. She could have offered him no real resistance.

But Illya had said that he'd had no alternative but to kill her, and above all things he trusted his partner. He would support Illya's actions, defend him against Waverly himself, if that was necessary.

He pulled Illya up from the floor and led him back to the entrance of the crypt. On the way, they passed several of the places where Vassili, April and Mark had set the bombs to distract Egret. The air hung heavy with dust and ash.

When they reached the main chamber near the entrance of the crypt, they found a scene of near chaos. Vassili, April and Mark were holding guns on over twenty Thrush prisoners. The bodies of the Thrush killed during the assault had been moved into a corner. April and Vassili seemed fine, but Mark was looking a pale and unsteady. April was keeping as close an eye on her partner as she was on their prisoners.

Napoleon was suddenly struck with the difficulty of their situation. They were in a country where they had no official status, had just set explosives underneath a national landmark and had taken prisoners that they had no means to deal with. The fight might be over, but they were not out of the woods yet.

Napoleon walked over to Vassili, hoping he might have some ideas about how they were going to get out of this.

"What should we do with our friends?" he asked the Russian, nodding at their prisoners.

"I believe I saw a larger room with a barred door down the hall. Why don't we lock them in there for now?"

"Good idea," said Illya. "We can contact the local authorities after we leave. With luck, we'll find someone honest and they won't just let them go."

"We should get as much information from all that as we can before we go," Napoleon said, pointing at the computers and filing cabinets. "After all, our mission was to find the center of all of this."

So, while Napoleon, April and Mark dealt with getting their prisoners securely locked up, Illya and Vassili examined the computers and files, taking the information they could find on Thrush traitors in U.N.C.L.E., the KGB and any other intelligence organizations. The list of turned agents was frighteningly long, though Napoleon was heartened to see that relatively few were U.N.C.L.E. agents.

When they had all the files they could reasonably carry, and their prisoners were dealt with, they left the crypt.

The sun had finally gone down, so the interior of the Dom was quiet, dark and deserted. They passed through the pews as quietly as they could manage. Napoleon wished they weren't quite so disheveled. It would be difficult passing unnoticed through the city with soot-smudged faces and grimy clothes. But they had no choice. Using the river exit would place them even further from their destination, so they would have to trust to their luck.

They all paused at the side exit to the Dom to catch their breath before braving the streets. Then, checking to make sure they were not observed, they left the Dom and moved into the plaza.

They were halfway across the plaza, a dreadfully open space when you were trying to avoid notice, when it happened.

The edges of the square were suddenly ringed by an unbroken line of shadowed figures. Over a hundred men carrying guns surrounded the square, blocking all lines of escape.

Though they would have no hope at all against such numbers, Napoleon and his group instinctively moved together for protection.

The men moved forward, converging on their position. As they moved from the edge of the square, Napoleon could see clearly that they wore Soviet uniforms. His heart began to pound harder in his chest and he moved to place himself between the Soviets and his partner. He could see no way that this would end well. Either these men worked for Thrush and they would all soon be dead, or they were loyal to the Soviet and they would spirit his partner away to the Gulag for daring to work for the Command.

Vassili must have had the same thoughts, because he broke away from their group and moved forward to face the soldiers. Napoleon shook off his protective instincts toward Illya and moved to join Vassili. As the senior U.N.C.L.E. agent present, it was appropriate that he should face whatever was coming.

A Soviet soldier broke away from the other men and starting moving toward the two of them. As he drew closer, Napoleon could see that he wore the uniform of a KGB colonel.

When he and Vassili were perhaps ten feet from the other man, they all stopped as if by mutual consent.

Napoleon looked at Vassili, trying to decide what to do. They did not make the first move.

The man across from them gave a crisp Soviet style salute.

"Colonel Nikolai Aleksandrovich Kulekov at your service," he said in Russian.

"Colonel Vassili Sergeiavich Rodchenko," Vassili replied. "And this is..."

"Agent Napoleon Solo from the U.N.C.L.E." completed Kulekov.

Napoleon nearly jumped in surprise. Illya, Mark and April had moved up around them.

"And Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, April Dancer and Mark Slate, also from the U.N.C.L.E."

"You know who we are?" he asked in Russian.

"Yes. We have been sent to offer you assistance."

Napoleon only kept his jaw from gaping open with difficulty. This was one outcome to the encounter he had not foreseen.

"I don't want to sound churlish, but why aren't you arresting us?" Napoleon asked.

The man looked a little uncomfortable.

"Your Mr. Waverly contacted my superiors earlier today. He had evidence of Thrush infiltration of the KGB. In return for the evidence, he asked that we assist you in any way we could."

"You believed Waverly?"

"Certain members of my organization had begun to notice, shall we say, erratic commands coming from certain areas. It was easy to believe that such orders were the result of Thrush interference." He frowned grimly. "The purges have already begun."

Napoleon nodded. He bet there would be purges. He was glad he wasn't a Thrush in the Soviet Union tonight. But there remained one last issue he wanted cleared up.

"You have no special orders regarding Agent Kuryakin?"

"No," Kulekov said, with a hint of uncertainty.

"But..." Napoleon prompted him. He did not want to lose Illya now, when victory seemed to be theirs.

"But I have been instructed to offer Agent Kuryakin a position within our organization. As head of the Baltic region."

Napoleon wanted to laugh, to dance, to twirl his partner in the streets. The Soviets didn't want to send Illya to Siberia; they wanted to promote him. The absurdity of the situation made him giddy, but he clamped down his emotions and responded soberly.

"I will have to let Mr. Kuryakin respond to your proposition himself." He hooked Illya by the arm and pulled him forward.

Illya looked at him, humor and relief playing in his eyes, before turning to face Kulekov.

"Thank you for your offer," Illya said. "It is a great honor but I think Colonel Rodchenko would make a much better choice."

Kulekov looked honestly surprised that Illya was turning down such a position, but then he didn't know his Kuryakins. If there was one thing Napoleon was sure of, it was that Illya would never go back to the Soviet Union to work in the KGB. He had become too used to the independence he had working in U.N.C.L.E. to go back to bureaucracy and paranoia of the Soviet intelligence community.

To stop the protest he could see Kulekov beginning to form, Napoleon pushed Vassili toward the Colonel.

"Perhaps Colonel Rodchenko could show you were we've placed our prisoners."

"Of course," Kulekov said. The two men moved back toward the Dom, with the other soldiers following behind. In a minute, the Dom square was deserted, leaving just Napoleon, Illya, April and Mark standing by themselves in the vast space.

"We've done it," April said, astonishment mixing with triumph in her voice.

"Yes, we have," said Napoleon. "But it would have been nice if Waverly had told us about this earlier."

"Don't complain," Mark told him. "I'm glad to take Waverly's help in any form at all."

Napoleon looked at Slate and was a little shocked by what he saw.

"Speaking of help, Mark, I think you could use some yourself." The younger agent was beginning to sway on his feet.

Napoleon grabbed his one arm while Illya grabbed the other, just before Mark's legs buckled beneath him.

"I'm fine," Mark insisted.

"Don't be an ass, Mark," April snapped. "You can barely stand."

Mark opened his mouth to protest, but Illya spoke up first.

"It's bad form to argue with your partner. Besides which, she's right." Illya placed Mark's arm over his own shoulder and supported the younger man on his left side. Napoleon did the same on his right.

"Shall we take you back to Erika's?" Napoleon asked. "I'm sure she'd be happy to know you're all right."

Mark bowed to the inevitable.

" _Andiamo_ ," he directed.

* * *

####  _Thursday, April 28, 1966_

Illya heaved a sigh of relief as he opened the door to their apartment. He dropped his bags just inside the threshold and headed for the bedroom, leaving Napoleon to set the locks and alarms behind them.

He sank gratefully onto the bed, stretching his arms and legs to touch all four corners.

He heard Napoleon enter the room.

"Hey," his partner said, "don't hog the bed."

Illya rolled onto his own side and Napoleon collapsed beside him.

Illya drew closer to Napoleon, nearly purring as his partner drew him into a tight embrace.

It had been too long since they'd had the leisure to just relax like this, with no thought of conspiracy or betrayal to intrude on their time together.

They'd had to stay in Riga for five days after the incident in the Dom, and spent another three in Berlin afterwards. Their time in Riga had been occupied filing reports and assisting with the reintegration of the Soviet Union into U.N.C.L.E.

Illya nearly envied Mark and April. They had been shipped back to New York almost immediately so that Mark could be examined by U.N.C.L.E.'s own doctors. Then again, he wasn't sure that being stuck in the medical center with a concussion was any better than being forced to fill out Russian paperwork in triplicate. Which, of course, Napoleon had left him to deal with.

He'd had to leave contacting Andris to Napoleon. He had wanted to tell the gruff Latvian of their success himself, but had been bogged down in talks with the higher level officers of the KGB, who insisted on trying to convince him to rejoin their ranks. It had taken all of his persuasive skill and stubbornness to assure them that he was perfectly happy in New York and could not be enticed to return to his homeland, no matter what incentives they offered him. The highest position in the Soviet Union could not replace the man who currently held him in his arms.

Their time in Berlin had been even less pleasant.

He had been involved in some of the interrogations of Ingrid Möller. He gave a slight shudder as he thought of what Ingrid had gone through. Though he could not condone what she had done, he understood why she'd felt she had no other choice.

"A penny for them," Napoleon said.

"What?" Illya asked, distracted.

"Your thoughts. You were thousands of miles away."

Illya took a deep breath and tucked his chin onto Napoleon's shoulder.

"I was thinking about Ingrid."

"Ah," Napoleon said, succinctly.

"I wish her well. I hope she is allowed to stay in U.N.C.L.E."

"Waverly seems to be leaning that way. And her partner  what's his name?"

"François Auteuil."

"He's supporting her."

"Yes. Though she will likely not be allowed to stay in Enforcement."

"No," Napoleon said.

Illya thought about what he would do if he was no longer allowed to work in Enforcement. He supposed he would be content returning to Research, as he was destined to do after he reached field retirement age, but he was not looking forward to that day.

Shaking his head slightly to banish such thoughts, Illya forced himself to surrender all his tension. He let out a sigh of contentment as Napoleon began to stroke his back. He concentrated on nothing but the pleasing sensations his partner was creating.

He roused himself when he felt himself drifting into sleep. He had ambitions to do more than sleep on their first day back in their own home. Waverly would be sending them halfway around the globe again soon enough.

Keeping his eyes shut, he kissed Napoleon fully on the lips, enjoying the distinctive taste of his lover, but surprised when there was no response. Only then did Illya open his eyes and find that Napoleon had fallen prey to sleep himself.

Smiling, Illya propped himself up on one elbow and took advantage of the rare opportunity to observe Napoleon while he slept. Usually, he was the one who fell asleep immediately. He hardly ever got the chance to see Napoleon looking this vulnerable, his face utterly at peace, his breath escaping from his lips in slow, measured puffs.

Illya ran his fingers along Napoleon's cheek, enjoying the sensation of smooth skin and slight stubble. After only a few minutes, his own body began to make its need known. His eyes felt gritty and he had to blink hard to keep them open. Bowing to the inevitable, he wrapped himself around Napoleon and drifted to sleep, content in the knowledge that they had saved the world for another day.


End file.
